IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE 


IN    THE    YEAR  OF   JUBILEE 


A  NOl/EL 


BY 

GEORGE   GISSING 

AUTHOR    OF 
EVE'S    RANSOM,    THE    ODD    WOMEN,    DENZIL    QUARRIER,    ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 
BY  GEORGE  GISSING. 

COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


IN   THE   YEAR  OF   JUBILEE 


PART  THE  FIRST— MISS  LORD. 


AT  eight  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  Arthur  Peachey 
unlocked  his  front  door,  and  quietly  went  forth.  He  had 
not  ventured  to  ask  that  early  breakfast  should  be  pre- 
pared for  him.  Enough  that  he  was  leaving  home  for  a 
summer  holiday — the  first  he  had  allowed  himself  since 
his  marriage  three  years  ago. 

It  was  a  house  in  De  Crespigny  Park ;  unattached, 
double-fronted,  with  half -sunk  basement,  and  a  flight  of 
steps  to  the  stucco  pillars  at  the  entrance.  De  Crespigny 
Park,  a  thoroughfare  connecting  Grove  Lane,  Camber- 
well,  with  Denmark  Hill,  presents  a  double  row  of  similar 
dwellings ;  its  clean  breadth,  with  foliage  of  trees  and 
shrubs  in  front  gardens,  makes  it  pleasant  to  the  eye  that 
finds  pleasure  in  suburban  London.  In  point  of  respecta- 
bility, it  has  claims  only  to  be  appreciated  by  the  ambi- 
tious middle-class  of  Camberwell.  Each  house  seems  to 
remind  its  neighbour,  with  all  the  complacence  express- 
ible in  buff  brick,  that  in  this  locality  lodgings  are  not 
to  let. 

For  an  hour  after  Peachey's  departure,  the  silence  of 
the  house  was  unbroken.  Then  a  bedroom  door  opened, 
and  a  lady  in  a  morning  gown  of  the  fashionable  helio- 
trope came  downstairs.  She  had  acute  features,  eyes  which 
seemed  to  indicate  the  concentration  of  her  thoughts  upon 

1 


2  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

a  difficult  problem,  and  cheeks  of  singular  bloom.  Her 
name  was  Beatrice  French ;  her  years  numbered  six  and 
twenty. 

She  entered  the  dining-room  and  drew  up  the  blind. 
Though  the  furniture  was  less  than  a  year  old,  and  by  no 
means  of  the  cheapest  description,  slovenly  housekeeping 
had  dulled  the  brightness  of  every  surface.  On  a  chair  lay 
a  broken  toy,  one  of  those  elaborate  and  costly  playthings 
which  serve  no  purpose  but  to  stunt  a  child's  imagination. 
Though  the  time  was  midsummer,  not  a  flower  appeared 
among  the  pretentious  ornaments.  The  pictures  were  a 
strange  medley — autotypes  of  some  artistic  value  hanging 
side  by  side  with  hideous  oleographs  framed  in  ponderous 
gilding.  Miss  French  looked  about  her  with  an  expression 
of  strong  disgust,  then  violently  rang  the  bell.  When  the 
summons  had  been  twice  repeated,  there  appeared  a  young 
woman  whose  features  told  of  long  and  placid  slumbers. 

"  Well  ?  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  The  cook  doesn't  feel  well,  miss  ;  she  can't  get  up." 

"  Then  get  breakfast  yourself,  and  look  sharp  about  it." 

Beatrice  spoke  with  vehemence ;  her  cheeks  showed  a 
circle  of  richer  hue  around  the  unchanging  rose.  The 
domestic  made  insolent  reply,  and  there  began  a  war  of 
words.  At  this  moment  another  step  sounded  on  the 
stairs,  and  as  it  drew  near,  a  female  voice  was  raised  in 
song. 

"  And  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  la-de-da,  la-de-da, — and 
a  penny  in  his  pocket,  la-de-da  I " 

A  younger  girl,  this,  of  much  slighter  build;  with  a 
frisky  gait,  a  jaunty  pose  of  the  head  ;  pretty,  but  thin- 
featured,  and  shallow-eyed  ;  a  long  neck,  no  chin  to  speak 
of,  a  low  forehead  with  the  hair  of  washed-out  flaxen 
fluffed  all  over  it.  Her  dress  was  showy,  and  in  a  taste 
that  set  the  teeth  on  edge.  Fanny  French,  her  name. 

"  What's  up  ?  Another  row  ?  "  she  asked,  entering  the 
room  as  the  servant  went  out. 

"  I've  known  a  good  many  fools,"  said  Beatrice,  "  but 
Ada's  the  biggest  I've  come  across  yet." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  3 

"  Is  she  ?  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  Fanny  admitted 
impartially.  And  with  a  skip  she  took  up  her  song 
again.  "  A  penny  paper  cottar  round  his  neck,  la-de- 
da " 

"  Are  you  going  to  church  this  morning  ?  "  asked  her 
sister. 

"  Yes.    Are  you  ?  " 

"  Come  for  a  walk  instead.  There's  something  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about." 

"  Won't  it  do  afterwards  ?    I've  got  an  appointment." 

"  With  Lord  ?  " 

Fanny  laughed  and  nodded. 

Interrupted  by  the  reappearance  of  the  servant,  who 
brought  a  tray  and  began  to  lay  the  table,  they  crossed 
the  hall  to  the  drawing-room.  In  half-an-hour's  time  a 
wretched  meal  was  prepared  for  them,  and  whilst  they 
were  satisfying  their  hunger,  the  door  opened  to  admit 
Mrs.  Peachey.  Ada  presented  herself  in  a  costume  which,, 
at  any  season  but  high  summer,  would  have  been  incon- 
veniently cool.  Beneath  a  loose  thin  dressing-gown  her 
feet,  in  felt  slippers,  showed  stockingless,  her  neck  was 
bare,  and  the  tresses  of  pale  yellow,  upon  which  she 
especially  prided  herself,  lay  raggedly  pinned  together 
on  the  top  of  her  flat  head.  She  was  about  twenty-eight 
years  old,  but  at  present  looked  more  than  thirty.  Her 
features  resembled  Fanny's,  but  had  a  much  less  amiable 
expression,  and  betokened,  if  the  thing  were  possible,  an 
inferior  intellect.  Fresh  from  the  morning  basin,  her 
cheeks  displayed  that  peculiar  colourlessness  which  re- 
sults from  the  habitual  use  of  paints  and  powders ;  her 
pale  pink  lips,  thin  and  sullen,  were  curiously  wrinkled  ; 
she  had  eyes  of  slate  colour,  with  lids  so  elevated  that 
she  always  seemed  to  be  staring  in  silly  wonder. 

"  So  you've  got  breakfast,  have  you  ? "  were  her  first 
words,  in  a  thin  and  rather  nasal  voice.  "  You  may  think 
yourselves  lucky." 

"  You  have  a  cheek  of  your  own,"  replied  Beatrice. 
44  Whose  place  is  it  to  see  that  we  get  meals  ? " 


4  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  And  what  can  any  one  do  with  servants  like  I've 
got  ?  "  retorted  the  married  sister. 

"  It's  your  own  fault.  You  should  get  better ;  and 
when  you've  got  them,  you  should  manage  them.  But 
that's  just  what  you  can't  do." 

"  Oh,  you'd  be  a  wonderful  housekeeper,  we  know  all 
about  that.  If  you're  not  satisfied,  you'd  better  find 
board  and  lodging  somewhere  else,  as  I've  told  you  often 
enough.  You're  not  likely  to  get  it  as  cheap." 

They  squabbled  for  some  minutes,  Fanny  looking  on 
with  ingenuous  amusement,  and  putting  in  a  word,  now 
for  this  side,  now  for  that. 

"  And  what  am  I  going  to  have  for  breakfast  ? "  de- 
manded Mrs.  Peachey  at  length,  surveying  the  table. 
"  You've  taken  jolly  good  care  of  yourselves,  it  seems 
to  me." 

She  jumped  up,  and  rang  the  bell.  When  a  minute's 
.interval  brought  no  reply,  she  rang  again.  Beatrice 
thought  it  probable  that  the  bell  might  be  rung  without 
effect,  "  till  all  was  blue." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  answered  her  sister,  and  forth- 
with invaded  the  lower  parts  of  the  house.  Thence,  pres- 
ently, her  voice  became  audible,  rising  gradually  to  shrill- 
ness ;  with  it  there  blended  the  rougher  accents  of  the 
housemaid,  now  in  reckless  revolt.  Beatrice  listened  for 
a  minute  or  two  in  the  hall,  then  passed  on  into  the 
drawing-room  with  a  contemptuous  laugh.  Fanny,  to 
whom  the  uproar  seemed  to  bring  a  renewal  of  appetite, 
cut  herself  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  ate  it  as  she 
stood  at  the  window. 

"  Dirty  cat !  beast !  swine ! " 

The  mistress  of  the  house,  fairly  beaten  away  by  supe- 
rior force  of  vocabulary,  reappeared  with  these  and  other 
exclamations,  her  face  livid,  her  foolish  eyes  starting  from 
their  sockets.  Fanny,  a  sort  of  Mother  Gary's  chicken, 
revelled  in  the  row,  and  screamed  her  merriment. 

It  was  long  before  the  domestic  uproar  wholly  sub- 
sided, but  towards  eleven  o'clock  the  sisters  found  them- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  5 

selves  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Ada  sprawled 
limply  on  a  sofa ;  Beatrice  sat  with  legs  crossed  in  the 
most  comfortable  chair;  and  Fanny  twirled  about  on  a 
music  stool. 

The  only  books  in  the  room  were  a  few  show- volumes, 
which  belonged  to  Arthur  Peachey,  and  half-a-dozen 
novels  of  the  meaner  kind,  wherewith  Ada  sometimes  be- 
guiled her  infinite  leisure.  But  on  tables  and  chairs  lay 
scattered  a  multitude  of  papers :  illustrated  weeklies, 
journals  of  society,  cheap  miscellanies,  penny  novelettes, 
and  the  like.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  when  new  numbers 
came  in,  Ada  Peachey  passed  many  hours  upon  her  sofa, 
reading  instalments  of  a  dozen  serial  stories,  paragraphs 
relating  to  fashion,  sport,  the  theatre,  answers  to  corre- 
spondents (wherein  she  especially  delighted),  columns  of 
facetiae,  and  gossip  about  notorious  people.  Through  a 
great  deal  of  this  matter  Beatrice  followed  her,  and  read 
much  besides  in  which  Ada  took  no  interest ;  she  studied 
a  daily  newspaper,  with  special  note  of  law  suits,  police 
intelligence,  wills,  bankruptcies,  and  any  concern,  great 
or  small,  wherein  money  played  a  part.  She  understood 
the  nature  of  investments,  and  liked  to  talk  about  stocks 
and  shares  with  her  male  acquaintances. 

They  were  the  daughters  of  a  Camberwell  builder, 
lately  deceased ;  to  each  of  them  had  fallen  a  patrimony 
just  sufficient  for  their  support  in  elegant  leisure.  Ada's 
money,  united  with  a  small  capital  in  her  husband's  pos- 
session, went  to  purchase  a  share  in  the  business  of  Messrs. 
Ducker,  Blunt  &  Co.,  manufacturers  of  disinfectants; 
Arthur  Peachey,  previously  a  clerk  to  the  firm,  became  a 
junior  partner,  with  the  result  that  most  of  the  hard  work 
was  thrown  upon  his  shoulders.  At  their  marriage,  the 
happy  pair  first  of  all  established  themselves  in  a  modest 
house  near  Camberwell  Road ;  two  years  later,  grow- 
ing prosperity  brought  about  their  removal  to  De  Cres- 
pigny  Park,  where  they  had  now  resided  for  some  twelve 
months.  Unlike  their  elder  sister,  Beatrice  and  Fanny 
had  learned  to  support  themselves,  Beatrice  in  the  postal 


6  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

service,  and  Fanny,  sweet  blossom  !  by  mingling  her  fra- 
grance with  that  of  a  florist's  shop  in  Brixton  ;  but  on  their 
father's  death  both  forsook  their  employment,  and  came 
to  live  with  Mrs.  Peachey.  Between  them,  these  two 
were  the  owners  of  house  property,  which  produced  £140 
a  year.  They  disbursed,  together,  a  weekly  sum  of  twenty- 
four  shillings  for  board  and  lodging,  and  spent  or  saved 
the  rest  as  their  impulses  dictated. 


II 

ADA  brooded  over  her  wrongs ;  Beatrice  glanced  over 
The  Referee.  Fanny,  after  twirling  awhile  in  maiden 
meditation,  turned  to  the  piano  and  jingled  a  melody  from 
"The  Mikado."  She  broke  off  suddenly,  and,  without 
looking  round,  addressed  her  companions. 

"  You  can  give  the  third  seat  at  the  Jubilee  to  somebody 
else.  I'm  provided  for." 

"  Who  are  you  going  with  ? "  asked  Ada. 

"  My  masher,"  the  girl  replied  with  a  giggle. 

"Where?" 

"Shop-windows  in  the  Strand,  I  think." 

She  resumed  her  jingling  ;  it  was  now  "  Queen  of  my 
Heart."  Beatrice,  dropping  her  paper,  looked  fixedly  at 
the  girl's  profile,  with  an  eyelid  droop  which  signified  cal- 
culation. 

"  How  much  is  he  really  getting  ? "  she  inquired  all  at 
once. 

"  Seventy-five  pounds  a  year.  '  Oh  where,  oh  where,  is 
my  leetle  dog  gone  1 ' '' 

"Does  he  say,"  asked  Mrs.  Peachey,  "that  his  governor 
will  stump  up  ? " 

They  spoke  a  peculiar  tongue,  the  product  of  sham  edu- 
cation and  mock  refinement  grafted  upon  a  stock  of  robust 
vulgarity.  One  and  all  would  have  been  moved  to  indig- 
nant surprise  if  accused  of  ignorance  or  defective  breed- 
ing. Ada  had  frequented  an  "establishment  for  young 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  7 

ladies  "  up  to  the  close  of  her  seventeenth  year  ;  the  other 
two  had  pursued  culture  at  a  still  more  pretentious  insti- 
tute until  they  were  eighteen.  All  could  "  play  the  pi- 
ano;" all  declared  —  and  believed  —  that  they  "knew 
French."  Beatrice  had  "  done  "  Political  Economy ;  Fanny 
had  u  been  through "  Inorganic  Chemistry  and  Botany. 
The  truth  was,  of  course,  that  their  minds,  characters,  pro- 
pensities had  remained  absolutely  proof  against  such  edu- 
cational influence  as  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  them. 
That  they  used  a  finer  accent  than  their  servants,  signified 
only  that  they  had  grown  up  amid  falsities,  and  were  en- 
abled, by  the  help  of  money,  to  dwell  above-stairs,  instead 
of  with  their  spiritual  kindred  below. 

Anticipating  Fanny's  reply,  Beatrice  observed,  with 
her  air  of  sagacity : 

"  If  you  think  you're  going  to  get  anything  out  of  an 
old  screw  like  Lord,  you'll  jolly  soon  find  your  mistake." 

"  Don't  you  go  and  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Fanny," 
said  Mrs.  Peachey.  "  Why,  he  can't  be  more  than  twenty- 
one,  is  he  ? " 

"  He's  turned  twenty-two." 

The  others  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Can't  I  have  who  I  like  for  a  masher  ? "  cried  Fanny, 
reddening  a  little.  "  Who  said  I  was  going  to  marry  him  ? 
I'm  in  no  particular  hurry  to  get  married.  You  think 
everybody's  like  yourselves." 

"  If  there  was  any  chance  of  old  Lord  turning  up  his 
toes,"  said  Beatrice  thoughtfully.  "  I  dare  say  he'll  leave  a 
tidy  handful  behind  him,  but  then  he  may  live  another 
ten  years  or  more." 

"  And  there's  Nancy,"  exclaimed  Ada.  "  Won't  she  get 
half  the  plunder  ? " 

"May  be  plenty,  even  then,"  said  Beatrice,  her  head 
aside.  "  The  piano  business  isn't  a  bad  line.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  leaves  ten  or  fifteen  thousand." 

"  Haven't  you  got  anything  out  of  Horace  ? "  asked  Ada 
of  Fanny.  "  What  has  he  told  you  ? " 

"  He  doesn't  know  much,  that's  the  fact." 


8  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Silly !  There  you  are.  His  father  treats  him  like  a 
boy ;  if  he  talked  about  marrying,  he'd  get  a  cuff  on  the 
ear.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  old  Lord,"  Ada  proceeded. 
"  He's  a  regular  old  tyrant.  Why,  you've  only  to  look  at 
him.  And  he  thinks  no  small  beer  of  himself,  either,  for 
all  be  lives  in  that  grubby  house ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
he  thinks  us  beneath  him." 

She  stared  at  her  sisters,  inviting  their  comment  on 
this  ludicrous  state  of  things. 

"  I  quite  believe  Nancy  does,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  point 
of  malice. 

"She's  a  stuck-up  thing,"  declared  Mrs.  Peachey. 
"  And  she  gets  worse  as  she  gets  older.  I  shall  never  in- 
vite her  again ;  it's  three  times  she  has  made  an  excuse — 
all  lies,  of  course." 

"Who  will  she  marry?"  asked  Beatrice,  in  a  tone  of 
disinterested  speculation. 

Mrs.  Peachey  answered  with  a  sneer : 

"  She's  going  to  the  Jubilee  to  pick  up  a  fancy  Prince." 

"As  it  happens,"  objected  Fanny,  "she  isn't  going  to 
the  Jubilee  at  all.  At  least  she  says  she  isn't.  She's  above 
it — so  her  brother  told  me." 

"I  know  who  wants  to  marry  her,"  Ada  remarked, 
with  a  sour  smile. 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  came  from  the  others. 

"Mr.  Crewe." 

With  a  significant  giggle,  Fanny  glanced  at  the  more 
sober  of  her  sisters ;  she,  the  while,  touched  her  upper  lip 
with  the  point  of  her  tongue,  and  looked  towards  the 
window. 

"  Does  he  ? "  Fanny  asked  of  the  ceiling. 

"He  wants  money  to  float  his  teetotal  drink,"  said 
Beatrice.  "  Hasn't  he  been  at  Arthur  about  it  ? " 

"  Not  that  I  know,"  answered  the  wife. 

"  He  tried  to  get  round  me,  but  I — 

A  scream  of  incredulity  from  Fanny,  and  a  chuckle 
from  Mrs.  Peachey,  covered  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Bea- 
trice gazed  at  them  defiantly. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  9 

"  Well,  idiots !    What's  up  now  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing." 

"  There's  nobody  knows  Luckworth  Crewe  better  than 
I  do,"  Beatrice  pursued  disdainfully,  "and  I  think  he 
knows  me  pretty  well.  He'll  make  a  fool  of  himself  when 
he  marries ;  I've  told  him  so,  and  he  as  good  as  said  I  was 
right.  If  it  wasn't  for  that,  I  should  feel  a  respect  for 
him.  He'll  have  money  one  of  these  days." 

"And  he'll  marry  Nancy  Lord,"  said  Ada  tauntingly. 

"  Not  just  yet." 

Ada  rolled  herself  from  the  sofa,  and  stood  yawning. 

"  Well,  I  shall  go  and  dress.  What  are  you  people  go- 
ing to  do  ?  You  needn't  expect  any  dinner.  I  shall  have 
mine  at  a  restaurant." 

"  Who  have  you  to  meet  ? "  asked  Fanny,  with  a 
grimace. 

Her  sister  disregarded  the  question,  yawned  again,  and 
turned  to  Beatrice. 

"  Who  shall  we  ask  to  take  Fan's  place  on  Tuesday  ? 
Whoever  it  is,  they'll  have  to  pay.  Those  seats  are  selling 
for  three  guineas,  somebody  told  me." 

Conversation  lingered  about  this  point  for  a  few  min- 
utes, till  Mrs.  Peaehey  went  upstairs.  When  the  door  was 
open,  a  child's  crying  could  be  heard,  but  it  excited  no  re- 
mark. Presently  the  other  two  retired,  to  make  themselves 
ready  for  going  out.  Fanny  was  the  first  to  reappear,  and, 
whilst  waiting  for  her  sister,  she  tapped  out  a  new  music- 
hall  melody  on  the  piano. 

As  they  left  the  house,  Beatrice  remarked  that  Ada 
really  meant  to  have  her  dinner  at  Gatti's  or  some  such 
place ;  perhaps  they  had  better  indulge  themselves  in  the 
same  way. 

"  Suppose  you  give  Horace  Lord  a  hint  that  we've  no 
dinner  at  home  ?  He  might  take  us,  and  stand  treat." 

Fanny  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  he  could  get  away.    The  guv'nor  expects 
him  home  to  dinner  on  Sundays." 
The  other  laughed  her  contempt. 


10  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  You  see !  What  good  is  lie  ?  Look  here,  Fan,  you 
just  wait  a  bit,  and  you'll  do  much  better  than  that.  Old 
Lord  would  cut  up  rough  as  soon  as  ever  such  a  thing  was 
mentioned ;  I  know  he  would.  There's  something  I  have 
had  in  my  mind  for  a  long  time.  Suppose  I  could  show 
you  a  way  of  making  a  heap  of  money — no  end  of 
money — ?  Shouldn't  you  like  it  better, — to  live  as  you 
pleased,  and  be  independent  ? " 

The  listener's  face  confessed  curiosity,  yet  was  dubious. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  going  into  business  with  me  ? " 
pursued  Miss  French.  "  We've  only  to  raise  a  little  money 
on  the  houses,  and  in  a  year  or  two  we  might  be  making 
thousands." 

"  Business  ?    What  sort  of  business  ? " 

"  Suppose  somebody  came  to  you  and  said :  Pay  me  a 
sovereign,  and  I'll  make  you  a  member  of  an  association 
that  supplies  fashionable  clothing  at  about  half  the  ordi- 
nary price, — wouldn't  you  jump  at  it  ? " 

"  If  I  thought  it  wasn't  a  swindle,"  Fanny  replied  in- 
genuously. 

"  Of  course.  But  you'd  be  made  to  see  it  wasn't.  And 
suppose  they  went  on  to  say :  Take  a  ten-pound  share,  and 
you  shall  have  a  big  interest  on  it,  as  well  as  your  dresses 
for  next  to  nothing.  How  would  you  like  that  ? " 

"  Can  it  be  done  ? " 

"I've  got  a  notion  it  can,  and  I  think  I  know  two  or 
three  people  who  would  help  to  set  the  thing  going.  But 
we  must  have  some  capital  to  show.  Have  you  the  pluck 
to  join  in  ? " 

"  And  suppose  I  lose  my  money  ? " 

"I'll  guarantee  you  the  same  income  you're  getting 
now — if  that  will  satisfy  you.  I've  been  looking  round, 
and  making  inquiries,  and  I've  got  to  know  a  bit  about  the 
profits  of  big  dressmakers.  We  should  start  in  Camber- 
well,  or  somewhere  about  there,  and  fish  in  all  the  women 
who  want  to  do  the  heavy  on  very  little.  There  are  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  them,  and  most  of  them" — she 
lowered  her  voice — "  know  as  much  about  cut  and  material 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  H 

as  they  do  about  stockbroking.  Do  you  twig-  ?  People 
like  Mrs.  Middlemist  and  Mrs.  Murch.  They  spend,  most 
likely,  thirty  or  forty  pounds  a  year  on  their  things,  and 
we  could  dress  them  a  good  deal  more  smartly  for  half  the 
money.  Of  course  we  should  make  out  that  a  dress  we 
sold  them  for  five  guineas  was  worth  ten  in  the  shops,  and 
the  real  cost  would  be  two.  See  ?  The  thing  is  to  per- 
suade them  that  they're  getting  an  article  cheap,  and  at 
the  same  time  making  money  out  of  other  people." 

Thus,  and  at  much  greater  length,  did  Miss  French  dis- 
course to  her  attentive  sister.  Forgetful  of  the  time,  Fanny 
found  at  length  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  meet  Horace 
Lord  as  he  came  out  of  church ;  but  it  did  not  distress  her. 


Ill 

NANCY  LORD  stood  at  the  front-room  window,  a  hand 
grasping  each  side  of  her  waist,  her  look  vaguely  directed 
upon  the  lime-tree  opposite  and  the  house  which  it  in  part 
concealed.  She  was  a  well-grown  girl  of  three-and-twenty, 
with  the  complexion  and  the  mould  of  form  which  indi- 
cate, whatever  else,  habitual  nourishment  on  good  and 
plenteous  food.  In  her  ripe  lips  and  softly-rounded  cheeks 
the  current  of  life  ran  warm.  She  had  hair  of  a  fine  au- 
burn, and  her  mode  of  wearing  it,  in  a  plaited  diadem,  an- 
swered the  purpose  of  completing  a  figure  which,  without 
being  tall,  had  some  stateliness  and  promised  more.  Her 
gown,  trimmed  with  a  collar  of  lace,  left  the  neck  free ; 
the  maiden  cincture  at  her  waist  did  no  violence  to  natural 
proportion. 

This  afternoon — it  was  Monday — she  could  not  occupy 
or  amuse  herself  in  any  of  the  familiar  ways.  Perhaps 
the  atmosphere  of  national  Jubilee  had  a  disturbing  effect 
upon  her, — in  spite  of  her  professed  disregard  for  the  gath- 
ering tumult  of  popular  enthusiasm.  She  had  not  left 
home  to-day,  and  the  brilliant  weather  did  not  tempt  her 
forth.  On  the  table  lay  a  new  volume  from  the  circulat- 


12  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

ing  library, — something  about  Evolution, — but  she  had  no 
mind  to  read  it ;  it  would  have  made  her  too  conscious  of 
the  insincerity  with  which  she  approached  such  profound 
subjects.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and  more  she  had 
stood  at  the  window,  regarding  a  prospect,  now  as  always, 
utterly  wearisome  and  depressing  to  her. 

Grove  Lane  is  a  long  acclivity,  which  starts  from  Cam- 
berwell  Green,  and  after  passing  a  few  mean  shops,  be- 
comes a  road  of  suburban  dwellings.  The  houses  vary 
considerably  in  size  and  aspect,  also  in  elate,— with  the  re- 
sult of  a  certain  picturesqueness,  enhanced  by  the  growth 
of  fine  trees  on  either  side.  Architectural  grace  can  no- 
where be  discovered,  but  the  contract-builder  of  to-day  has 
not  yet  been  permitted  to  work  his  will ;  age  and  irregu- 
larity, even  though  the  edifices  be  but  so  many  illustra- 
tions of  the  ungainly,  the  insipid,  and  the  frankly  hideous, 
have  a  pleasanter  effect  than  that  of  new  streets  built  to 
one  pattern  by  the  mile.  There  are  small  cottages  over- 
grown with  creepers,  relics  of  Camberwell's  rusticity ;  rows 
of  tall  and  of  squat  dwellings  that  lie  behind  grassy  plots, 
railed  from  the  road ;  larger  houses  that  stand  in  their 
own  gardens,  hidden  by  walls.  Narrow  passages  connect 
the  Lane  with  its  more  formal  neighbour  Camberwell 
Grove ;  on  the  other  side  are  ways  leading  towards  Den- 
mark Hill,  quiet,  leafy.  From  the  top  of  the  Lane,  where 
Champion  Hill  enjoys  an  aristocratic  seclusion,  is  obtain- 
able a  glimpse  of  open  fields  and  of  a  wooded  horizon 
southward. 

It  is  a  neighbourhood  in  decay,  a  bit  of  London  which 
does  not  keep  pace  with  the  times.  And  Nancy  hated  it. 
She  would  have  preferred  to  live  even  in  a  poor  and  grimy 
street  which  neighboured  the  main  track  of  business  and 
pleasure. 

Here  she  had  spent  as  much  of  her  life  as  she  remem- 
bered,— from  the  end  of  her  third  year.  Mr.  Lord  never 
willingly  talked  of  days  gone  by,  but  by  questioning  him 
she  had  learnt  that  her  birthplace  was  a  vaguely  indicated 
part  of  northern  London;  there,  it  seemed,  her  mother 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  13 

had  died,  a  year  or  so  after  the  birth  of  her  brother  Hor- 
ace. The  relatives  of  whom  she  knew  were  all  on  her 
father's  side,  and  lived  scattered  about  England.  When 
she  sought  information  concerning  her  mother,  Mr.  Lord 
became  evasive  and  presently  silent ;  she  had  seen  no  por- 
trait of  the  dead  parent.  Of  late  years  this  obscure  point 
of  the  family  history  had  often  occupied  her  thoughts. 

Nancy  deemed  herself  a  highly  educated  young  wom- 
an,— "  cultured  "  was  the  word  she  would  have  used.  Her 
studies  at  a  day-school  which  was  reputed  "  modern  "  ter- 
minated only  when  she  herself  chose  to  withdraw  in  her 
eighteenth  year ;  and  since  then  she  had  pursued  "  courses  " 
of  independent  reading,  had  attended  lectures,  had  thought 
of  preparing  for  examinations — only  thought  of  it.  Her 
father  never  suggested  that  she  should  use  these  acquire- 
ments for  the  earning  of  money ;  little  as  she  knew  of  his 
affairs,  it  was  obviously  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  he 
could  ensure  her  life-long  independence.  Satisfactory, 
this ;  but  latterly  it  had  become  a  question  with  her  how 
the  independence  was  to  be  used,  and  no  intelligible  aim 
as  yet  presented  itself  to  her  roving  mind.  All  she  knew 
was,  that  she  wished  to  live,  and  not  merely  to  vegetate. 
Now  there  are  so  many  ways  of  living,  and  Nancy  felt  no 
distinct  vocation  for  any  one  of  them. 

She  was  haunted  by  an  uneasy  sense  of  doubtfulness  as 
to  her  social  position.  Mr.  Lord  followed  the  calling  of  a 
dealer  in  pianos ;  a  respectable  business,  to  be  sure,  but,  it 
appeared,  not  lucrative  enough  to  put  her  above  caring 
how  his  money  was  made.  She  knew  that  one's  father 
may  be  anything  whatever,  yet  suffer  no  social  disability, 
provided  he  reap  profit  enough  from  the  pursuit.  But 
Stephen  Lord,  whilst  resorting  daily  to  his  warehouse  in 
Camberwell  Road — hot  a  locality  that  one  would  care  to 
talk  about  in  "  cultured  "  circles — continued,  after  twenty 
years,  to  occupy  this  small  and  ugly  dwelling  in  Grove 
Lane.  Possibly,  owing  to  an  imperfect  education,  he 
failed  to  appreciate  his  daughter's  needs,  and  saw  no  rea- 
son why  she  should  not  be  happy  in  the  old  surroundings. 
2 


14  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

On  the  other  hand,  perhaps  he  cared  very  little  about 
her.  Undoubtedly  his  favourite  was  Horace,  and  in  Hor- 
ace he  had  suffered  a  disappointment.  The  boy,  in  spite 
of  good  schooling,  had  proved  unequal  to  his  father's  hope 
that  he  would  choose  some  professional  career,  by  prefer- 
ence the  law ;  he  idled  away  his  schooldays,  failed  at  ex- 
aminations, and  ultimately  had  to  be  sent  into  "  business." 
Mr.  Lord  obtained  a  place  for  him  in  a  large  shipping 
agency;  but  it  still  seemed  doubtful  whether  he  would 
make  any  progress  there,  notwithstanding  the  advantage 
of  his  start ;  at  two-and-twenty  he  was  remunerated  with 
a  mere  thirty  shillings  a  week,  a  "nominal  salary,"  his 
employers  called  it.  Nancy  often  felt  angry  with  her 
brother  for  his  lack  of  energy  and  ambition ;  he  might  so 
easily,  she  thought,  have  helped  to  establish,  by  his  profes- 
sional dignity,  her  own  social  status  at  the  level  she  de- 
sired. 

There  came  into  view  a  familiar  figure,  crossing  from 
the  other  side  of  the  way.  Nancy  started,  waved  her  hand, 
and  went  to  open  the  door.  Her  look  had  wholly  altered ; 
she  was  bright,  mirthful,  overflowing  with  affectionate 
welcome. 

This  friend  of  hers,  Jessica  Morgan  by  name,  had  few 
personal  attractions.  She  looked  overwrought  and  low- 
spirited  ;  a  very  plain  and  slightly-made  summer  gown 
exhibited  her  meagre  frame  with  undue  frankness;  her 
face  might  have  been  pretty  if  health  had  filled  and  col- 
oured the  flesh,  but  as  it  was  she  looked  a  ghost  of  girl- 
hood, a  dolorous  image  of  frustrate  sex.  In  her  cotton- 
gloved  hand  she  carried  several  volumes  and  note-books. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  in,"  was  her  first  utterance,  be- 
tween pants  after  hasty  walking  and  the  jerks  of  a 
nervous  little  laugh.  "I  want  to  ask  you  something 
about  Geometrical  Progression.  You  remember  that  for- 
mula  " 

"  How  can  I  remember  what  I  never  knew  ? "  exclaimed 
Nancy.  "  I  always  hated  those  formulas ;  I  couldn't  learn 
them  to  save  my  life." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  15 

"  Oh,  that's  nonsense !  You  were  much  better  at  mathe- 
matics than  I  was.  Do  just  look  at  what  I  mean." 

She  threw  her  books  down  upon  a  chair,  and  opened 
some  pages  of  scrawled  manuscript,  talking  hurriedly  in  a 
thin  falsetto. 

Her  family,  a  large  one,  had  fallen  of  late  years  from  a 
position  of  moderate  comfort  into  sheer  struggle  for  sub- 
sistence. Jessica,  armed  with  certificates  of  examinational 
prowess,  got  work  as  a  visiting  governess.  At  the  same 
time,  she  nourished  ambitions,  discernible  perhaps  in  the 
singular  light  of  her  deep-set  eyes  and  a  something  of  hys- 
teric determination  about  her  lips.  Her  aim,  at  present, 
was  to  become  a  graduate  of  London  University ;  she  was 
toiling  in  her  leisure  hours — the  hours  of  exhaustion,  that 
is  to  say — to  prepare  herself  for  matriculation,  which  she 
hoped  to  achieve  in  the  coming  winter.  Of  her  intimate 
acquaintances  only  one  could  lay  claim  to  intellectual 
superiority,  and  even  she,  Nancy  Lord  to  wit,  shrank  from 
the  ordeals  of  Burlington  House.  To  become  B.  A.,  to  have 
her  name  in  the  newspapers,  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the 
clever,  the  uncommon  women — for  this  Jessica  was  will- 
ing to  labour  early  and  late,  regardless  of  failing  health, 
regardless  even  of  ruined  complexion  and  hair  that  grew 
thin  beneath  the  comb. 

She  talked  only  of  the  "  exam,"  of  her  chances  in  this 
or  that  "paper,"  of  the  likelihood  that  this  or  the  other 
question  would  be  "set."  Her  brain  was  becoming  a 
mere  receptacle  for  dates  and  definitions,  vocabularies  and 
rules  syntactic,  for  thrice-boiled  essence  of  history,  ragged 
scrax>s  of  science,  quotations  at  fifth  hand,  and  all  the 
heterogeneous  rubbish  of  a  "crammer's"  shop.  When 
away  from  her  books,  she  carried  scraps  of  paper,  with 
jottings  to  be  committed  to  memory.  Beside  her  plate  at 
meals  lay  formulae  and  tabulations.  She  went  to  bed  with 
a  manual  and  got  up  with  a  compendium. 

Nancy,  whose  pursuit  of  "culture"  followed  a  less 
exhausting  track,  regarded  the  girl  with  a  little  envy  and 
some  compassion.  Esteeming  herself  in  every  respect 


IQ  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Jessica's  superior,  she  could  not  help  a  slight  condescen- 
sion in  the  tone  she  used  to  her ;  yet  their  friendship  had 
much  sincerity  on  both  sides,  and  each  was  the  other's 
only  confidante.  As  soon  as  the  mathematical  difficulty 
could  he  set  aside,  Nancy  began  to  speak  of  her  private 
troubles. 

"  The  Prophet  was  here  last  night,"  she  said,  with  a 
girlish  grimace.  "He's  beginning  again.  I  can  see  it 
coming.  I  shall  have  to  snub  him  awfully  next  time." 

"  Oh,  what  a  worry  he  is ! " 

"  Yes,  but  there's  something  worse.  I  suspected  that 
the  Pasha  knew  of  it ;  now  I  feel  sure  he's  encouraging 
him." 

By  this  oriental  style  Nancy  signified  her  father.  The 
Prophet  was  her  father's  partner  in  business,  Mr.  Samuel 
Bennett  Barmby. 

"  I  feel  sure  now  that  they  talked  it  over  when  the 
Prophet  was  taken  into  partnership.  I  was  thrown  in  as 
a  '  consideration.' " 

"•  But  how  could  your  father  possibly  think ? " 

"  It's  hard  to  say  what  he  does  think  about  me.  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  have  a  talk  with  him.  If  so,  it  will 
be  a  long  talk,  and  a  very  serious  talk.  But  he  isn't  well 
just  now,  and  I  must  put  it  off." 

"He  isn't  well?" 

UA  touch  of  gout,  he  says.  Two  days  last  week  he 
didn't  go  to  business,  and  his  temper  was  that  'orrible ! " 
Nancy  had  a  habit  of  facetiously  quoting  vulgarities ;  this 
from  an  acquaintance  of  theirs  who  often  supplied  them 
with  mirth.  "I  suppose  the  gout  does  make  one  bad- 
tempered." 

"  Has  he  been  coming  often  ? — Mr.  Barmby,  I  mean." 

"  Pretty  well.  I  think  I  must  turn  matchmaker,  and 
get  him  married  to  some  one.  It  oughtn't  to  be  difficult. 
The  Prophet 4  has  points.' " 

"  I  dare  say  some  people  would  think  him  handsome," 
assented  Miss  Morgan,  nibbling  a  finger  which  showed  an 
ink-stain,  and  laughing  shyly. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  17 

"  And  his  powers  of  conversation ! — Don't  you  know 
any  one  that  would  do  for  him  ? " 

They  jested  on  this  theme  until  Nancy  chose  to  be- 
come serious  again. 

"  Have  you  any  lessons  to-morrow  ? " 

"No.  Thank  goodness  every  one  is  going  to  see  the 
procession,  or  the  decorations,  or  the  illuminations,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  nonsense,"  Jessica  replied.  "I  shall 
have  a  good  long  day  of  work ;  except  that  I've  promised 
to  go  in  the  afternoon,  and  have  tea  with  the  little  girls  at 
Champion  Hill.  I  wish  you'd  come  too;  they'd  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you,  and  there'll  be  nobody  except  the 
governess." 

Nancy  looked  up  in  doubt. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?    Won't  the  dowager  be  at  home  ? " 

"She  hasn't  left  her  room  for  three  weeks." 

They  exchanged  a  look  of  some  special  significance. 

"  Then  I  suppose,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  peculiar  smile, 
that's  why  Mr.  Tarrant  has  been  calling  ? " 

"  Has  he  ?    How  do  you  know  ? " 

Again  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  Nancy  laughed. 

"I  have  happened  to  meet  him  twice,  the  last  few 
days."  She  spoke  in  an  off-hand  way.  "  The  first  time,  it 
was  just  at  the  top  of  the  lane;  he  was  coming  away. 
The  second  time,  I  was  walking  along  Champion  Hill, 
and  he  came  up  behind  me,  going  to  the  house." 

"Did  he  talk?" 

Nancy  gave  a  nod. 

"Yes,  both  times.  But  he  didn't  tell  me  that  the 
dowager  was  worse." 

"  High  and  mighty  ? "  asked  Jessica. 

"  Not  quite  so  majestic  as  usual,  I  thought.  I  didn't 
feel  quite  so  much  of  a  shrimp  before  him.  And  decidedly 
he  was  in  better  spirits.  Perhaps  the  dowager's  death 
would  be  important  to  him  ? " 

"  Very  likely.     Will  you  come  to-morrow  ? " 

Miss  Lord  hesitated — then,  with  a  sudden  frankness : 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  afraid  he  might  be  there." 


18  IN  THE   YEAH  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so,  not  on  Jubilee  Day." 

"  But  that's  the  very  reason.  He  may  come  to  be  out 
of  the  uproar." 

"  I  meant  he  was  more  likely  to  be  out  of  town  al- 
together." 

Nancy,  still  leaning  over  the  table,  propped  her  chin 
on  her  hands,  and  reflected. 

"  Where  does  he  go,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  places,  no  doubt.  Men  of  that  kind 
are  always  travelling.  I  suppose  he  goes  shooting  and 
fishing " 

Nancy's  laugh  made  an  interruption. 

"  No,  no,  he  doesn't !  He  told  me  once  that  he  didn't 
care  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  know  much  more  about  him  than  I 
do,"  said  Miss  Morgan,  with  a  smile. 

"  I've  often  meant  to  ask  you — have  they  anything  to 
do  with  Tarrant's  black-lead  ? " 

Jessica  declared  that  she  had  never  heard  of  it. 

"  Never  heard  of  it  ?  nonsense !  A  few  years  ago  it  used 
to  be  posted  up  everywhere,  and  I  see  it  sometimes  even 
now,  but  other  kinds  seem  to  have  driven  it  out  of  the 
market.  Now  that's  just  like  you !  Pray,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  Pears'  Soap  ? " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Really  ?  Oh,  there's  hope  of  you.  You'll  be  a  woman 
of  the  world  some  day." 

"  Don't  tease,  Nancy.  And  what  would  it  matter  if  he 
was  there  to-morrow  ? " 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  But  I  shouldn't  particularly  like 
his  lordship  to  imagine  that  I  went  in  the  hope  of  paying 
my  respects  to  him,  and  having  the  reward  of  a  gracious 
smile." 

"  One  can't  always  be  thinking  about  what  other  peo- 
ple think,"  said  Jessica  impatiently.  "You're  too  sensi- 
tive. Any  one  else  in  your  position  would  have  lots  of 
such  friends." 

"  In  my  position !    What  is  my  position  ? " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  19 

"Culture  is  everything  now-a-days,"  observed  Miss 
Morgan,  with  the  air  of  one  who  feels  herself  abundantly 
possessed  of  that  qualification. 

But  Nancy  laughed. 

u  You  may  depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Tarrant  doesn't  think  so." 

"  He  calls  himself  a  democrat." 

"  And  talks  like  one :  doesn't  he  ? " 

"  Oh !  that's  only  his  way,  I  think.  He  doesn't  really 
mean  to  be  haughty,  and — and  so  on." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  if  he  had  any  connection  with  Tar- 
rant's  black-lead,"  said  Miss  Lord  mischievously. 

"  Why  not  ask  him  ? " 

They  laughed  merrily,  Jessica's  thin  note  contrasting 
with  the  mellow  timbre  of  her  friend's  voice. 

"  I  will  some  day." 

"  You  would  never  dare  to ! " 

"I  daren't?    Then  I  will!" 

"  It  would  be  dreadfully  rude." 

"I  don't  mind  being  thought  rude,"  replied  Nancy, 
with  a  movement  of  the  head,  "if  it  teaches  people  that  I 
consider  myself  as  good  as  they  are." 

"  Well,  will  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Ye-es;  if  you'll  go  somewhere  else  with  me  in  the 
evening." 

"  Where  to  ? " 

"  To  walk  about  the  streets  after  dark,  and  see  the 
crowds  and  the  illuminations." 

Nancy  uttered  this  with  a  sly  mirthf ulness.  Her  friend 
was  astonished. 

"  Nonsense !  you  don't  mean  it." 

"  I  do.  I  want  to  go  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  I  should 
feel  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  ran  to  stare  at  Eoyalties,  but 
it's  a  different  thing  at  night.  It'll  be  wonderful,  all  the 
traffic  stopped,  and  the  streets  crammed  with  people,  and 
blazing  with  lights.  Won't  you  go  ? " 

"  But  the  time,  the  time  !  I  can't  afford  it.  I'm  getting 
on  so  wretchedly  with  my  Greek  and  my  chemistry." 

"  You've  time  enough,"  said  Nancy.    "  And,  you  know, 


20  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

after  all  it's  a  historical  event.  In  the  year  3000  it  will  be 
4  set '  in  an  examination  paper,  and  poor  wretches  will  get 
plucked  because  they  don't  know  the  date." 

This  was  quite  a  new  aspect  of  the  matter  to  Jessica 
Morgan.  She  pondered  it,  and  smiled. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  will.  But  we  should  have  to  be  out 
so  late." 

"  Why  not,  for  once  ?  It  needn't  be  later  tlion  half- 
past  eleven."  Nancy  broke  off  and  gesticulated.  "  That's 
just  why  I  want  to  go  !  I  should  like  to  walk  about  all 
night,  as  lots  of  people  will.  The  public-houses  are  going 
to  be  kept  open  till  two  o'clock." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  into  public-houses  ? "  asked  Jes- 
sica, laughing. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  should  like  to.  It's  horrible  to  be  tied 
up  as  we  are ;  we're  not  children.  Why  can't  we  go  about 
as  men  do  ? " 

"  Won't  your  father  make  any  objection  ?  "  asked  Jes- 
sica. 

"  We  shall  take  Horace  with  us.  Your  people  wouldn't 
interfere,  would  they  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  Father  is  away  in  Yorkshire,  and  will 
be  till  the  end  of  the  week.  Poor  mother  has  her  rheu- 
matism. The  house  is  so  dreadfully  damp.  We  ought 
never  to  have  taken  it.  The  difference  of  rent  will  all  go 
in  doctors'  bills. — I  don't  think  mother  would  mind :  but 
I  must  be  back  before  twelve,  of  course." 

"I  don't  see  the  'of  course,'"  Nancy  returned  impa- 
tiently, "  but  we  could  manage  that.  I'll  speak  to  the  Pasha 
to-night,  and  either  come,  or  let  you  have  a  note,  to-mor- 
row morning.  If  there's  any  objection,  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  shan't  make  it  the  opportunity  for  setting  up  my  stand- 
ard of  revolt.  But  I  don't  like  to  do  that  whilst  the  Pasha 
is  out  of  sorts — it  might  make  him  worse." 

"  You  could  reason  with  him  quietly." 

"Reason  with  the  Pasha — How  innocent  you  are, 
Jess !  How  unworldly !  It  always  refreshes  me  to  hear 
you  talk." 


IN  THE   YEAH  OF  JUBILEE.  21 


IV 

ONLY  twelve  months  ago  Stephen  Lord  had  renewed 
the  lease  of  his  house  for  a  period  of  seven  years.  Nancy, 
had  she  been  aware  of  this  transaction,  would  assuredly 
have  found  courage  to  enter  a  protest,  but  Mr.  Lord  con- 
sulted neither  son  nor  daughter  on  any  point  of  business ; 
but  for  this  habit  of  acting  silently,  he  would  have  seemed 
to  his  children  a  still  more  arbitrary  ruler  than  they  actu- 
ally thought  him. 

The  dwelling  consisted  of  but  eight  rooms,  one  of 
which,  situated  at  the  rear  of  the  entrance  passage,  served 
Mr.  Lord  as  sitting-room  and  bed-chamber ;  it  overlooked 
a  small  garden,  and  afforded  a  side  glimpse  of  the  kitchen 
with  its  outer  appurtenances.  In  the  front  room  the 
family  took  meals.  Of  the  chambers  in  the  storey  above, 
one  was  Nancy's,  one  her  brother's ;  the  third  had,  until 
six  years  ago,  been  known  as  "  Grandmother's  room,"  and 
here  its  occupant,  Stephen  Lord's  mother,  died  at  the  age 
of  seventy-eight.  Wife  of  a  Norfolk  farmer,  and  mother 
of  nine  children,  she  was  one  of  the  old-world  women 
whose  thoughts  found  abundant  occupation  in  the  cares 
and  pleasures  of  home.  Hardship  she  had  never  known, 
nor  yet  luxury ;  the  old  religion,  the  old  views  of  sex  and 
of  society,  endured  with  her  to  the  end. 

After  her  death  the  room  was  converted  into  a  parlour, 
used  almost  exclusively  by  the  young  people.  At  the  top 
of  the  house  slept  two  servants,  each  in  her  own  well- 
furnished  retreat;  one  of  them  was  a  girl,  the  other  a 
woman  of  about  forty,  named  Mary  Woodruff.  Mary 
had  been  in  the  house  for  twenty  years ;  she  enjoyed  her 
master's  confidence,  and,  since  old  Mrs.  Lord's  death,  ex- 
ercised practical  control  in  the  humbler  domestic  affairs. 

With  one  exception,  all  parts  of  the  abode  presented 
much  the  same  appearance  as  when  Stephen  Lord  first 
established  himself  here.  The  furniture  was  old,  solid, 
homely ;  the  ornaments  were  antiquated,  and  in  primitive 
taste.  Nancy's  bedroom  alone  displayed  the  influence  of 


22  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

modern  ideas.  On  her  twentieth  birthday,  the  girl  re- 
ceived permission  to  dress  henceforth  as  she  chose  (a  strict 
sumptuary  law  having  previously  been  in  force),  and  at 
'the  same  time  was  allowed  to  refurnish  her  chamber. 
Nancy  pleaded  for  modern  reforms  throughout  the  house, 
but  in  vain ;  even  the  drawing-room  kept  its  uninviting 
aspect,  not  very  different,  save  for  the  removal  of  the  bed, 
from  that  it  had  presented  when  the  ancient  lady  slept 
here.  In  her  own  little  domain,  Miss  Lord  made  a  clean 
sweep  of  rude  appointments,  and  at  small  expense  sur- 
rounded herself  with  pretty  things.  The  woodwork  and 
the  furniture  were  in  white  enamel ;  the  paper  had  a  pat- 
tern of  wild-rose.  A  choice  chintz,  rose-leaf  and  flower 
on  a  white  ground,  served  for  curtains  and  for  bed-hang- 
ings. Her  carpet  was  of  green  felt,  matching  in  shade  the 
foliage  of  the  chintz.  On  suspended  shelves  stood  the  books 
which  she  desired  to  have  near  her,  and  round  about  the 
walls  hung  prints,  photographs,  chromolithographs,  se- 
lected in  an  honest  spirit  of  admiration,  which  on  the 
whole  did  no  discredit  to  Nancy's  sensibilities. 

To  the  best  of  Nancy's  belief,  her  father  had  never  seen 
this  room.  On  its  completion  she  invited  him  to  inspect 
it,  but  Mr.  Lord  coldly  declined,  saying  that  he  knew 
nothing,  and  cared  nothing,  about  upholstery. 

His  return  to-day  was  earlier  than  usual.  Shortly  after 
five  o'clock  Nancy  heard  the  familiar  heavy  step  in  the 
passage,  and  went  downstairs. 

"  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  father  ? "  she  asked, 
standing  by  the  door  of  the  back  room,  which  was 
ajar. 

"  If  it's  ready,"  replied  a  deep  voice. 

She  entered  the  dining-room,  and  rang  the  bell.  In  a 
few  minutes  Mary  Woodruff  appeared,  bringing  tea  and 
biscuits.  She  was  a  neat,  quiet,  plain-featured  woman,  of 
strong  physique,  and  with  set  lips,  which  rarely  parted 
save  for  necessary  speech.  Her  eyes  had  a  singular  ex- 
pression of  inquietude,  of  sadness.  A  smile  seldom  ap- 
peared on  her  face,  but,  when  it  did,  the  effect  was  unlooked 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  23 

for;  it  touched  the  somewhat  harsh  lineaments  with  a 
gentleness  so  pleasing  that  she  became  almost  comely. 

Having  set  down  the  tray,  she  went  to  Mr.  Lord's  door, 
gave  a  soft  tap,  and  withdrew  into  the  kitchen. 

Nancy,  seated  at  the  table,  turned  to  greet  her  father. 
In  early  life,  Stephen  Lord  must  have  been  handsome ; 
his  face  was  now  rugged,  of  unhealthy  tone,  and  creased 
with  lines  betokening  a  moody  habit.  He  looked  much 
older  than  his  years,  which  were  fifty-seven.  Dressed  with 
excessive  carelessness,  he  had  the  appearance  rather  of  one 
at  odds  with  fortune  than  of  a  substantial  man  of  business. 
His  short  beard  was  raggedly  trimmed ;  his  grizzled  hair 
began  to  show  the  scalp.  Judging  from  the  contour  of 
his  visage,  one  might  have  credited  him  with  a  forcible 
and  commanding  character ;  his  voice  favoured  that  im- 
pression ;  but  the  countenance  had  a  despondent  cast, 
the  eyes  seemed  to  shun  observation,  the  lips  suggested 
a  sullen  pride,  indicative  of  some  defect  or  vice  of 
will. 

Yet  in  the  look  which  he  cast  upon  her,  Nancy  de- 
tected a  sign  of  more  amiability  than  she  had  found  in 
him  of  late.  She  addressed  him  with  confidence. 

"  Early  to-day,  father." 

"  Yes." 

The  monosyllable  sounded  gruff,  but  again  Nancy  felt 
satisfaction.  Mr.  Lord,  who  disliked  to  seat  himself  un- 
less he  were  going  to  keep  his  position  for  some  time,  took 
the  offered  beverage  from  his  daughter's  hand,  and  stood 
with  it  before  the  fireplace,  casting  glances  about  the 
room. 

u  How  have  you  felt,  father  ? " 

"  Nothing  to  complain  of." 

His  pronunciation  fell  short  of  refinement,  but  was 
not  vulgar.  Something  of  country  accent  could  still  be 
detected  in  it.  He  talked  like  a  man  who  could  strike  a 
softer  note  if  he  cared  to,  but  despises  the  effort. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  have  a  rest  to-morrow  ? " 

"I  suppose  so.    If  your  grandmother  had  lived,"  he 


24  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

added  thoughtfully,  "she  would  have  been  eighty-four 
this  week  on  Thursday." 

"  The  23rd  of  June.    Yes,  I  remember." 

Mr.  Lord  swallowed  his  tea  at  two  draughts,  and  put 
down  the  cup.  Seemingly  refreshed,  he  looked  about  him 
with  a  half  smile,  and  said  quietly : 

"  I've  had  the  pleasure  of  punishing  a  scoundrel  to-day. 
That's  worth  more  than  the  Jubilee." 

Nancy  waited  for  an  explanation,  but  it  was  not  vouch- 
safed. 

"  A  scoundrel  ? "  she  asked. 

Her  father  nodded — the  nod  which  signified  his  pleas- 
ure that  the  subject  should  not  be  pursued.  Nancy  could 
only  infer  that  he  spoke  of  some  incident  in  the  course  of 
business,  as  indeed  was  the  case. 

He  had  no  particular  aptitude  for  trade,  and  that  by 
which  he  lived  (he  had  entered  upon  it  thirty  years  ago 
rather  by  accident  than  choice)  was  thoroughly  distasteful 
to  him.  As  a  dealer  in  pianofortes,  he  came  into  contact 
with  a  class  of  people  who  inspired  him  with  a  savage 
contempt,  and  of  late  years  his  business  had  suffered  con- 
siderably from  the  competition  of  tradesmen  who  knew 
nothing  of  such  conflicts  between  sentiment  and  interest. 
A  majority  of  his  customers  obtained  their  pianos  on  the 
"  hire-purchase  system,"  and  of tener  than  not,  they  were 
persons  of  very  small  or  very  precarious  income,  who, 
rabid  in  the  pursuit  of  gentility,  signed  agreements  they 
had  little  chance  of  fulfilling ;  when  in  pecuniary  straits, 
they  either  raised  money  upon  the  instruments,  or  allowed 
them  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  distraining  creditors.  In- 
quiry into  the  circumstances  of  a  would-be  customer  some- 
times had  ludicrous  results ;  a  newly-married  couple,  for 
instance,  would  be  found  tenanting  two  top-floor  rooms, 
the  furnishing  whereof  seemed  to  them  incomplete  with- 
out the  piano  of  which  their  friends  and  relatives  boasted. 
Not  a  few  professional  swindlers  came  to  the  office ;  con- 
federate rogues,  vouching  for  each  other's  respectability, 
got  possession  of  pianos  merely  to  pawn  or  sell  them,  hav- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  25 

ing  paid  no  more  than  the  first  month's  charge.  It  was 
Mr.  Lord's  experience  that  year  by  year  the  recklessness  of 
the  vulgar  became  more  glaring,  and  deliberate  fraud 
more  artful.  To-day  he  had  successfully  prosecuted  a 
man  who  seemed  to  have  lived  for  some  time  on  the 
hire-purchase  system,  and  it  made  him  unusually  cheerful. 

"  You  don't  think  of  going  to  see  the  Queen  to-mor- 
row ? "  said  his  daughter,  smiling. 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  the  Queen  ?  Do  you  wish 
to  go  ? " 

"  Not  to  see  Her  Majesty.  I  care  as  little  about  her  as 
you  do.  But  I  thought  of  having  a  walk  in  the  evening." 

Nancy  phrased  it  thus  with  intention.  She  wished  to 
intimate  that,  at  her  age,  it  could  hardly  be  necessary  to 
ask  permission.  But  her  father  looked  surprised. 

u  In  the  evening  ?    Where  ? " 

"  Oh,  about  the  main  streets — to  see  the  people  and  the 
illuminations." 

Her  voice  was  not  quite  firm. 

"  But,"  said  her  father,  "  there'll  be  such  a  swarm  of 
blackguards  as  never  was  known.  How  can  you  go  into 
such  a  crowd  ?  It's  astonishing  that  you  should  think 
of  it." 

The  blackguards  will  be  outnumbered  by  the  decent 
people,  father." 

"  You  suppose  that's  possible  ? "  he  returned  gloomily. 

"Oh,  I  think  so,"  Nancy  laughed.  "At  all  events, 
there'll  be  a  great  majority  of  people  who  pretend  to  be 
decent.  I  have  asked  Jessica  Morgan  to  go  with  me." 

"  What  right  had  you  to  ask  her,  without  first  finding 
out  whether  you  could  go  or  not  ? " 

It  was  spoken  rather  gravely  than  severely.  Mr.  Lord 
never  looked  fixedly  at  his  daughter,  and  even  a  glance  at 
her  face  was  unusual ;  but  at  this  juncture  he  met  her 
eyes  for  an  instant.  The  nervous  motion  with  which  he 
immediately  turned  aside  had  been  marked  by  Nancy  on 
previous  occasions,  and  she  had  understood  it  as  a  sign  of 
his  lack  of  affection  for  her. 


26  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

41 1  am  twenty-three  years  old,  father,"  she  replied,  with- 
out aggressiveness. 

"  That  would  be  something  of  an  answer  if  you  were  a 
man,"  observed  the  father,  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Because  I  am  a  woman,  you  despise  me  ? " 

Stephen  was  startled  at  this  unfamiliar  mode  of  ad- 
dress. He  moved  uneasily. 

u  If  I  despised  you,  Nancy,  I  shouldn't  care  very  much 
what  you  did.  I  suppose  you  must  do  as  you  like,  but  you 
won't  go  with  my  permission." 

There  was  a  silence,  then  the  girl  said : 

"  I  meant  to  ask  Horace  to  go  with  us." 

"  Horace— pooh ! " 

Again  a  silence.  Mr.  Lord  laid  down  his  cup,  moved  a 
few  steps  away,  and  turned  back. 

"  I  didn't  think  this  kind  of  thing  was  in  your  way," 
he  said  gruffly.  "  I  thought  you  were  above  it." 

Nancy  defended  herself  as  she  had  done  to  Jessica,  but 
without  the  playfulness.  In  listening,  her  father  seemed 
to  weigh  the  merits  of  the  case  conscientiously  with 
wrinkled  brows.  At  length  he  spoke. 

"  Horace  is  no  good.  But  if  Samuel  Barmby  will  go 
with  you,  I  make  no  objection." 

A  movement  of  annoyance  was  Nancy's  first  reply. 
She  drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the  table,  looking  fix- 
edly before  her. 

"  I  certainly  can't  ask  Mr.  Barmby  to  come  with  us," 
she  said  with  an  effort  at  self-control. 

"  Well,  you  needn't.     I'll  speak  about  it  myself." 

He  waited,  and  again  it  chanced  that  their  eyes  met. 
Nancy,  on  the  point  of  speaking,  checked  herself.  A  full 
minute  passed,  and  Stephen  stood  waiting  patiently. 

"  If  you  insist  upon  it,"  said  Nancy,  rising  from  her 
chair,  "  we  will  take  Mr.  Barmby  with  us." 

Without  comment,  Mr.  Lord  left  the  room,  and  his 
own  door  closed  rather  loudly  behind  him. 

Not  long  afterwards  Nancy  heard  a  new  foot  in  the 
passage,  and  her  brother  made  his  appearance.  Horace 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  27 

had  good  looks,  but  his  face  showed  already  some  of  the 
unpleasant  characteristics  which  time  had  developed  on 
that  of  Stephen  Lord,  and  from  which  the  daughter  was 
entirely  free ;  one  judged  him  slow  of  intellect  and  weakly 
self-willed.  His  hair  was  of  pale  chestnut,  the  silky  pencil 
lings  of  his  moustache  considerably  darker.  His  cheek 
delicately  pink  and  easily  changing  to  a  warmer  hue,  his 
bright-coloured  lips,  and  the  limpid  glistening  of  his  eyes, 
showed  him  of  frail  constitution ;  he  was  very  slim,  and 
narrow  across  the  shoulders.  The  fashion  of  his  attire 
tended  to  a  dandiacal  extreme, — modish  silk  hat,  lavender 
necktie,  white  waistcoat,  gaiters  over  his  patent-leather 
shoes,  gloves  crushed  together  in  one  hand,  and  in  the 
other  a  bamboo  cane.  For  the  last  year  or  two  he  had 
been  progressing  in  this  direction,  despite  his  father's 
scornful  remarks  and  his  sister's  good-natured  mockery. 

u  Father  in  yet  ? "  he  asked  at  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room,  in  subdued  voice. 

Nancy  nodded,  and  the  young  man  withdrew  to  lay 
aside  his  outdoor  equipments. 

kt  What  sort  of  temper  ? "  was  his  question  when  he  re- 
turned. 

"  Pretty  good — until  I  spoilt  it." 

Horace  exhibited  a  pettish  annoyance. 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  do  that  for  ?  I  want  to  have 
a  talk  with  him  to-night." 

"  About  what  ? " 

"  Oh,  never  mind ;  I'll  tell  you  after." 

Both  kept  their  voices  low,  as  if  afraid  of  being  over- 
heard in  the  next  room.  Horace  began  to  nibble  at  a  bis- 
cuit ;  the  hour  of  his  return  made  it  unnecessary  for  him, 
as  a  rule,  to  take  anything  before  dinner,  but  at  present  he 
seemed  in  a  nervous  condition,  and  acted  mechanically. 

"  Come  out  into  the  garden,  will  you  ? "  he  said,  after 
receiving  a  brief  explanation  of  what  had  passed  between 
Nancy  and  her  father.  "  I've  something  to  tell  you." 

His  sister  carelessly  assented,  and  with  heads  un- 
covered they  went  through  the  house  into  the  open  air. 


28  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

The  garden  was  but  a  strip  of  ground,  bounded  by  walls 
of  four  feet  high;  in  the  midst  stood  a  laburnum,  now 
heavy  with  golden  bloom,  and  at  the  end  grew  a  holly- 
bush,  flanked  with  laurels ;  a  border  flower-bed  displayed 
Stephen  Lord's  taste  and  industry.  Nancy  seated  herself 
on  a  rustic  bench  in  the  shadow  of  the  laburnum,  and 
Horace  stood  before  her,  one  of  the  branches  in  his  hand. 

"  I  promised  Fanny  to  take  her  to-morrow  night,"  he 
began  awkwardly. 

"  Oh,  you  have  ? " 

"And  we're  going  together  in  the  morning,  you 
know." 

"  I  know  now.     I  didn't  before,"  Nancy  replied. 

"  Of  course  we  can  make  a  party  in  the  evening." 

"  Of  course." 

Horace  looked  up  at  the  ugly  house-backs,  and  hesi- 
tated before  proceeding. 

"  That  isn't  what  I  wanted  to  talk  about,"  he  said  at 
length.  "  A  very  queer  thing  has  happened,  a  thing  I  can't 
make  out  at  all." 

The  listener  looked  her  curiosity. 

"  I  promised  to  say  nothing  about  it,  but  there's  no 
harm  in  telling  you,  you  know.  You  remember  I  was 
away  last  Saturday  afternoon  ?  Well,  just  when  it  was 
time  to  leave  the  office,  that  day,  the  porter  came  to  say 
that  a  lady  wished  to  see  me — a  lady  in  a  carriage  outside. 
Of  course  I  couldn't  make  it  out  at  all,  but  I  went  down 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  saw  the  carriage  waiting  there, 
— a  brougham, — and  marched  up  to  the  door.  Inside  there 
was  a  lady — a  great  swell,  smiling  at  me  as  if  we  were 
friends.  I  took  off  my  hat,  and  said  that  I  was  Mr.  Lord. 
'  Yes,'  she  said,  '  I  see  you  are ; '  and  she  asked  if  I  could 
spare  her  an  hour  or  two,  as  she  wished  to  speak  to  me  of 
something  important.  Well,  of  course  I  could  only  say 
that  I  had  nothing  particular  to  do, — that  I  was  just  going 
home.  '  Then  will  you  do  me  the  pleasure,'  she  said,  '  to 
come  and  have  lunch  with  me  ?  I  live  in  Weymouth 
Street,  Portland  Place.' " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  29 

The  young  man  paused  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  nar- 
rative, especially  of  the  last  words.  Nancy  returned  his 
gaze  with  frank  astonishment 

"  What  sort  of  lady  was  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  a  great  swell.  Somebody  in  the  best  society — 
you  could  see  that  at  once." 

"  But  how  old  ? " 

"Well,  I  couldn't  tell  exactly;  about  forty,  I  should 
think." 

"  Oh !— Go  on." 

"  One  couldn't  refuse,  you  know ;  I  was  only  too  glad 
to  go  to  a  house  in  the  West  End.  She  opened  the  car- 
riage-door from  the  inside,  and  I  got  in,  and  off  we  drove. 
I  felt  awkward,  of  course,  but  after  all  I  was  decently 
dressed,  and  I  suppose  I  can  behave  like  a  gentleman,  and 
— well,  she  sat  looking  at  me  and  smiling,  and  I  could 
only  smile  back.  Then  she  said  she  must  apologise  for 
behaving  so  strangely,  but  I  was  very  young,  and  she  was 
an  old  woman, — one  couldn't  call  her  that,  though, — and 
she  had  taken  this  way  of  renewing  her  acquaintance  with 
me.  Renewing  ?  But  I  didn't  remember  to  have  ever 
met  her  before,  I  said.  '  Oh,  yes,  we  have  met  before,  but 
you  were  a  little  child,  a  baby  in  fact,  and  there's  no  won- 
der you  don't  remember  me  ! '  And  then  she  said,  '  I 
knew  your  mother  very  well.'  " 

Nancy  leaned  forward,  her  lips  apart. 

"  Queer,  wasn't  it  ?  Then  she  went  on  to  say  that  her 
name  was  Mrs.  Damerel ;  had  I  ever  heard  it  ?  No,  I 
couldn't  remember  the  name  at  all.  She  was  a  widow, 
she  said,  and  had  lived  mostly  abroad  for  a  great  many 
years ;  now  she  was  come  back  to  settle  in  England.  She 
hadn't  a  house  of  her  own  yet,  but  lived  at  a  boarding- 
house  ;  she  didn't  know  whether  to  take  a  house  in  Lon- 
don, or  somewhere  just  out  in  the  country.  Then  she  be- 
gan to  ask  about  father,  and  about  you  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
amuse  her  when  I  looked  puzzled.  She's  a  jolly  sort  of 
person,  always  laughing." 

"  Did  she  say  anything  more  about  our  mother  ? " 
3 


30  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  presently.  We  got  to  the 
house,  and  went  in,  and  she  took  me  up-stairs  to  her  own 
private  sitting-room,  where  the  table  was  laid  for  two. 
She  said  that  she  usually  had  her  meals  with  the  other 
people,  but  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  be  alone,  so  that  we 
could  talk." 

"  How  did  she  know  where  to  find  you  ? "  Nancy  in- 
quired. 

"  Of  course  I  wondered  about  that,  but  I  didn't  like  to 
ask.  Well,  she  went  away  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  we 
had  lunch.  Everything  was  A-l  of  course ;  first-rate  wines 
to  choose  from,  and  a  rattling  good  cigar  afterwards — for 
me,  I  mean.  She  brought  out  a  box ;  said  they  were  her 
husband's,  and  had  a  laugh  about  it." 

"  How  long  has  she  been  a  widow  ? "  asked  Nancy. 

"I  don't  know.  She  didn't  wear  colours,  I  noticed; 
perhaps  it  was  a  fashionable  sort  of  mourning.  We  talked 
about  all  sorts  of  things ;  I  soon  made  myself  quite  at 
home.  And  at  last  she  began  to  explain.  She  was  a  friend 
of  mother's,  years  and  years  ago,  and  father  was  the  cause 
of  their  parting,  a  quarrel  about  something,  she  didn't  say 
exactly  what.  And  it  had  suddenly  struck  her  that  she 
would  like  to  know  how  we  were  getting  on.  Then  she 
asked  me  to  promise  that  I  would  tell  no  one." 

"  She  knew  about  mother's  death,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  she  knew  about  that.  It  happened  not  very 
long  after  the  affair  that  parted  them.  She  asked  a  good 
many  questions  about  you.  And  she  wanted  to  know  how 
father  had  got  on  in  his  business." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Oh,  I  told  her  I  really  didn't  know  much  about  it, 
and  she  laughed  at  that." 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  there  ? " 

"  Till  about  four.  But  there's  something  else.  Before 
I  went  away  she  gave  me  an  invitation  for  next  Saturday. 
She  wants  me  to  meet  her  at  Portland  Road  Station,  and 
go  out  to  Richmond,  and  have  dinner  there." 

"Shall  you  go?" 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  31 

"  Well,  it's  very  awkward.  I  want  to  go  somewhere 
else  on  Saturday,  with  Fanny.  But  I  didn't  see  how  to 
refuse." 

Nancy  wore  a  look  of  grave  reflection,  and  kept  silence. 

"  It  isn't  a  bad  thing,  you  know,"  pursued  her  brother, 
"  to  have  a  friend  of  that  sort.  There's  no  knowing  what 
use  she  might  be,  especially  just  now." 

His  tone  caused  Nancy  to  look  up. 

"Why  just  now?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  after  I've  had  a  talk  with  father  to-night," 
Horace  replied,  setting  his  countenance  to  a  show  of  ener- 
getic resolve. 

"  Shall  I  guess  what  you're  going  to  talk  about  ? " 

"  If  you  like." 

She  gazed  at  him. 

"  You're  surely  not  so  silly  as  to  tell  father  about  all 
that  nonsense  ? " 

"  What  nonsense  ? "  exclaimed  the  other  indignantly. 

"Why,  with  Fanny  French." 

"You'll  find  that  it's  anything  but  nonsense,"  Horace 
replied,  raising  his  brows,  and  gazing  straight  before  him, 
with  expanded  nostrils. 

"All  right.  Let  me  know  the  result.  It's  time  to 
go  in." 

Horace  sat  alone  for  a  minute  or  two,  his  legs  at  full 
length,  his  feet  crossed,  and  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
bent  forward.  He  smiled  to  himself,  a  smile  of  singular 
fatuity,  and  began  to  hum  a  popular  tune. 


V 

WHEN  they  assembled  at  table,  Mr.  Lord  had  recovered 
his  moderate  cheerfulness.  Essentially,  he  was  anything 
but  ill-tempered  ;  Horace  and  Nancy  were  far  from  regard- 
ing him  with  that  resentful  bitterness  which  is  produced 
in  the  victims  of  a  really  harsh  parent.  Ten  years  ago,  as 
they  well  remembered,  anger  was  a  rare  thing  in  his  be- 


32  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

haviour  to  them,  and  kindness  the  rule.  Affectionate  he 
had  never  shown  himself ;  reserve  and  austerity  had  al- 
ways distinguished  him.  Even  now-a-days,  it  was  gener- 
ally safe  to  anticipate  mildness  from  him  at  the  evening 
meal.  In  the  matter  of  eating  and  drinking  his  prudence 
notably  contradicted  his  precepts.  He  loved  strong  meats, 
dishes  highly  flavoured,  and  partook  of  them  without  mod- 
eration. At  table  his  beverage  was  ale ;  for  wine — unless 
it  were  very  sweet  port — he  cared  little  ;  but  in  the  privacy 
of  his  own  room,  whilst  smoking  numberless  pipes  of  rank 
tobacco,  he  indulged  freely  in  spirits.  The  habit  was  un- 
known to  his  children,  but  for  some  years  he  had  seldom  gone 
to  bed  in  a  condition  that  merited  the  name  of  sobriety. 

When  the  repast  was  nearly  over,  Mr.  Lord  glanced  at 
his  son  and  said  unconcernedly : 

"  You  have  heard  that  Nancy  wants  to  mix  with  the 
rag- tag  and  bobtail  to-morrow  night  ? " 

"  I  shall  take  care  of  her,"  Horace  replied,  starting  from 
his  reverie. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  rather  a  come-down  for  an 
educated  young  lady  ? " 

"  Oh,  there'll  be  lots  of  them  about." 

"  Will  there  ?  Then  I  can't  see  much  difference  be- 
tween them  and  the  servant  girls." 

Nancy  put  in  a  word. 

''That  shows  you  don't  in  the  least  understand  me, 
father." 

"  We  won't  argue  about  it.  But  bear  in  mind,  Horace, 
that  you  bring  your  sister  back  not  later  than  half -past 
eleven.  You  are  to  be  here  by  half-past  eleven." 

"  That's  rather  early,"  replied  the  young  man,  though 
in  a  submissive  tone. 

"  It's  the  hour  I  appoint.  Samuel  Barmby  will  be  with 
you,  and  he  will  know  the  arrangement ;  but  I  tell  you 
now,  so  that  there  may  be  no  misunderstanding." 

Nancy  sat  in  a  very  upright  position,  displeasure  plain 
upon  her  countenance.  But  she  made  no  remark.  Horace, 
who  had  his  reasons  for  desiring  to  preserve  a  genial  tone, 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  33 

affected  acquiescence.  Presently  he  and  his  sister  went 
upstairs  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  sat  down  at  a 
distance  apart — Nancy  by  the  window,  gazing  at  the  warm 
clouds  above  the  roofs  opposite,  the  young  man  in  a  corner 
which  the  dusk  already  shadowed.  Some  time  passed 
before  either  spoke,  and  it  was  Horace's  voice  which  first 
made  itself  heard. 

"  Nancy,  don't  you  think  it's  about  time  we  began  to 
behave  firmly  ? " 

"It  depends  what  you  mean  by  firmness,"  she  an- 
swered in  an  absent  tone. 

"  We're  old  enough  to  judge  for  ourselves." 

"  I  am,  no  doubt.     But  I'm  not  so  sure  about  you." 

"  Oh,  all  right.     Then  we  won't  talk  about  it." 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by.  The  room  was 
in  twilight.  There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mary 
Woodruff,  a  wax-taper  in  her  hand,  entered  to  light  the 
gas.  Having  drawn  the  blind,  and  given  a  glance  round 
to  see  that  everything  was  in  order,  she  addressed  Nancy, 
her  tone  perfectly  respectful,  though  she  used  no  formality. 

"  Martha  has  been  asking  me  whether  she  can  go  out 
to-morrow  night  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"  You  don't  wish  to  go  yourself  ? "  Miss  Lord  returned, 
her  voice  significant  of  life-long  familiarity. 

"Oh  not" 

And  Mary  showed  one  of  her  infrequent  smiles. 

"  She  may  go  immediately  after  dinner,  and  be  away 
till  half-past  ten." 

The  servant  bent  her  head,  and  withdrew.  As  soon  as 
she  was  gone,  Horace  laughed. 

"  There  you  are !    What  did  father  say  ? " 

Nancy  was  silent. 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  have  a  word  with  him,"  continued 
the  young  man,  sauntering  towards  the  door  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  He  looked  exceedingly  nervous. 
"  When  I  come  back,  I  may  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"  Very  likely,"  remarked  his  sister  in  a  dry  tone,  and 
seated  herself  under  the  chandelier  with  a  book. 


34  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Horace  slowly  descended  the  stairs.  At  the  foot  he 
stood  for  a  moment,  then  moved  towards  his  father's  door. 
Another  hesitancy,  though  briefer,  and  he  knocked  for 
admission,  which  was  at  once  granted.  Mr.  Lord  sat  in 
his  round-backed  chair,  smoking  a  pipe,  on  his  knees  an 
evening  paper.  He  looked  at  Horace  from  under  his  eye- 
brows, but  with  good  humour. 

"  Coming  to  report  progress  ? " 

"  Yes,  father, — and  to  talk  over  things  in  general." 

The  slim  youth — he  could  hardly  be  deemed  more  than 
a  lad — tried  to  assume  an  easy  position,  with  his  elbow  on 
the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece ;  but  his  feet  shuffled,  and 
his  eyes  strayed  vacantly.  It  cost  him  an  effort  to  begin 
his  customary  account  of  how  things  were  going  with  him 
at  the  shipping-office.  In  truth,  there  was  nothing  par- 
ticular to  report;  there  never  was  anything  particular; 
but  Horace  always  endeavoured  to  show  that  he  had  made 
headway,  and  to-night  he  spoke  with  a  very  pronounced 
optimism. 

"Very  well,  my  boy,"  said  his  father.  "If  you  are 
satisfied,  I  shall  try  to  be  the  same.  Have  you  your  pipe 
with  you  ? — At  your  age  I  hadn't  begun  to  smoke,  and  I 
should  advise  you  to  be  moderate ;  but  we'll  have  a  whiff 
together,  if  you  like." 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  it,"  Horace  replied  impulsively. 

He  came  back  with  a  rather  expensive  meerschaum, 
recently  purchased. 

"  Hollo !  luxuries ! "  exclaimed  his  father. 

"  It  kept  catching  my  eye  in  a  window,— and  at  last  I 
couldn't  resist.  Tobacco's  quite  a  different  thing  out  of  a 
pipe  like  this,  you  know." 

No  one,  seeing  them  thus  together,  could  have  doubted 
of  the  affectionate  feeling  which  Stephen  Lord  entertained 
for  his  son.  It  appeared  in  his  frequent  glances,  in  the 
relaxation  of  his  features,  in  a  certain  abandonment  of  his 
whole  frame,  as  though  he  had  only  just  begun  to  enjoy 
the  evening's  repose. 

"I've   something   rather    important    to    speak   about, 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  35 

father,"  Horace  began,  when  he  had  puffed  for  a  few 
minutes  in  silence. 

"Oh?    What's  that?" 

"  You  remember  telling  me,  when  I  was  one  and 
twenty,  that  you  wished  me  to  work  my  way  up,  and 
win  an  income  of  my  own,  but  that  I  could  look  to  you 
for  help,  if  ever  there  was  need  of  it ? " 

Yes,  Stephen  remembered.  He  had  frequently  called 
it  to  mind,  and  wondered  whether  it  was  wisely  said,  the 
youth's  character  considered. 

"  What  of  that  ? "  he  returned,  still  genially.  "  Do  you 
think  of  starting  a  new  line  of  ocean  steamships  ? " 

"  Well,  not  just  yet,"  Horace  answered,  with  an  uncer- 
tain laugh.  "  I  have  something  more  moderate  in  view. 
I  may  start  a  competition  with  the  P.  and  O.  presently." 

"  Let's  hear  about  it." 

"  I  dare  say  it  will  surprise  you  a  little.  The  fact  is,  I 
— I  am  thinking  of  getting  married." 

The  father  did  not  move,  but  smoke  ceased  to  issue 
from  his  lips,  and  his  eyes,  fixed  upon  Horace,  widened  a 
little  in  puzzled  amusement. 

"  Thinking  of  it,  are  you  ? "  he  said,  in  an  undertone,  as 
one  speaks  of  some  trifle.  "No  harm  in  thinking.  Too 
many  people  do  it  without  thinking  at  all." 

"  I'm  not  one  of  that  kind,"  said  Horace,  with  an  air  of 
maturity  which  was  meant  to  rebuke  his  father's  jest.  "  I 
know  what  I'm  about.  I've  thought  it  over  thoroughly. 
You  don't  think  it  too  soon,  I  hope  ? " 

Horace's  pipe  was  going  out;  he  held  it  against  his 
knee  and  regarded  it  with  unconscious  eyes. 

"  I  dare  say  it  won't  be,"  said  Mr.  Lord,  "  when  you 
have  found  a  suitable  wife." 

"  Oh,  but  you  misunderstand  me.  I  mean  that  I  have 
decided  to  marry  a  particular  person." 

"  And  who  may  that  be  ? " 

"  The  younger  Miss  French — Fanny." 

His  voice  quivered  over  the  name ;  at  the  end  he  gave 
a  gasp  and  a  gulp.  Of  a  sudden  his  lips  and  tongue  were 


36  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

very  dry,  and  he  felt  a  disagreeable  chill  running  down 
his  back.  For  the  listener's  face  had  altered  noticeably ; 
it  was  dark,  stern,  and  something  worse.  But  Mr.  Lord 
could  still  speak  with  self-control. 

"  You  have  asked  her  to  marry  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have ;  and  she  has  consented." 

Horace  felt  his  courage  returning,  like  the  so-called 
"second  wind"  of  a  runner.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  gone  through  the  worst.  The  disclosure  was  made, 
and  had  resulted  in  no  outbreak  of  fury;  now  he  could 
begin  to  plead  his  cause.  Imagination,  excited  by  nervous 
stress,  brought  before  him  a  clear  picture  of  the  beloved 
Fanny,  with  fluffy  hair  upon  her  forehead  and  a  laugh  oil 
her  never-closed  lips.  He  spoke  without  effort. 

"  I  thought  that  there  would  be  no  harm  in  asking  you 
to  help  us.  We  should  be  quite  content  to  start  on  a 
couple  of  hundred  a  year — quite.  That  is  only  about  fifty 
pounds  more  than  we  have." 

Calf-love  inspires  many  an  audacity.  To  Horace  there 
seemed  nothing  outrageous  in  this  suggestion.  He  had 
talked  it  over  with  Fanny  French  several  times,  and  they 
had  agreed  that  his  father  could  not  in  decency  offer  them 
less  than  a  hundred  a  year.  He  began  to  shake  out  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe,  with  a  vague  intention  of  relight- 
ing it. 

"  You  really  imagine,"  said  his  father,  "  that  I  should 
give  you  money  to  enable  you  to  marry  that  idiot  ? " 

Evidently  he  put  a  severe  restraint  upon  himself.  The 
veins  of  his  temples  were  congested;  his  nostrils  grew 
wide ;  and  he  spoke  rather  hoarsely.  Horace  straightened 
his  back,  and,  though  in  great  fear,  strung  himself  for 
conflict. 

u  I  don't  see — what  right — to  insult  the  young  lady." 

His  father  took  him  up  sternly. 

"  Young  lady  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  '  young  lady '  ? 
After  all  your  education,  haven't  you  learnt  to  distinguish 
a  lady  from  a  dressed-up  kitchen  wench  ?  I  had  none  of 
your  advantages.  There  was — there  would  have  been 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  37 

some  excuse  for  me,  if  I  had  made  such  a  fool  of  myself. 
What  were  you  doing1  all  those  years  at  school,  if  it  wasn't 
learning1  the  difference  between  real  and  sham,  getting  to 
understand  thing's  better  than  poor  folks'  children  ?  You 
disappointed  me,  arid  a  good  deal  more  than  I  ever  told 
you.  I  had  hoped  you  would  come  from  school  better 
able  to  make  a  place  in  the  world  than  your  father  was. 
I  made  up  my  mind  long  ago  that  you  should  never  go 
into  my  business ;  you  were  to  be  something  a  good  deal 
better.  But  after  all  you  couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  do  what  I 
wanted.  Never  mind — I  said  to  myself — never  mind  ;  at 
all  events,  he  has  learnt  to  think  in  a  better  way  than  if  I 
had  sent  him  to  common  schools,  and  after  all  that's  the 
main  thing.  But  here  you  come  to  me  and  talk  of  marry- 
ing a  low-bred,  low-minded  creature,  who  wouldn't  be 
good  enough  for  the  meanest  clerk  ! " 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  father  ?  What — what  right 
have  you  to  say  such  things,  without  knowing  more  of  her 
than  you  do  ? " 

There  was  a  brief  silence  before  Mr.  Lord  spoke  again. 

"You  are  very  young,"  he  said,  with  less  vehement 
contempt.  u  I  must  remember  that.  At  your  age,  a  lad 
has  a  sort  of  devil  in  him,  that's  always  driving  him  out 
of  the  path  of  common  sense,  whether  he  will  or  no.  I'll 
try  my  best  to  talk  quietly  with  you.  Does  your  sister 
know  what  has  been  going  on  ? " 

"  I  daresay  she  does.  I  haven't  told  her  in  so  many 
words." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  pursued  Mr.  Lord  gloomily. 
"I  took  it  for  granted  that  everybody  must  see  those 
people  as  I  myself  did.  I  have  wondered  now  and  then 
why  Nancy  kept  up  any  kind  of  acquaintance  with  them, 
but  she  spoke  of  them  in  the  rational  way,  and  that  seemed 
enough.  I  may  have  thought  that  they  might  get  some 
sort  of  good  out  of  her,  and  I  felt  sure  she  had  too  much 
sense  to  get  harm  from  them.  If  it  hadn't  been  so,  I 
should  have  forbidden  her  to  know  them  at  all.  What 
have  you  to  say  for  yourself  ?  I  don't  want  to  think 


38  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

worse  of  you  than  I  need.  I  can  make  allowance  for 
your  age,  as  I  said.  What  do  you  see  in  that  girl  ?  Just 
talk  to  me  freely  and  plainly." 

"After  all  you  have  said,"  replied  Horace,  his  voice 
still  shaky,  "  what's  the  use  ?  You  seem  to  be  convinced 
that  there  isn't  a  single  good  quality  in  her." 

"  So  I  am.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  good  you 
have  found." 

"  A  great  deal,  else  I  shouldn't  have  asked  her  to  marry 
me." 

A  vein  of  stubbornness,  unmistakable  inheritance  from 
Stephen  Lord,  had  begun  to  appear  in  the  youth's  speech 
arid  bearing.  He  kept  his  head  bent,  and  moved  it  a  little 
from  side  to  side. 

"Do  you  think  her  an  exception  in  the  family, 
then?" 

"  She's  a  great  deal  better  in  every  way  than  her  sisters. 
But  I  don't  think  as  badly  of  them  as  you  do." 

Mr.  Lord  stepped  to  the  door,  and  out  into  the  passage, 
where  he  shouted  in  his  deep  voice  "  Nancy ! "  The  girl 
quickly  appeared. 

"Shut  the  door,  please,"  said  her  father.  All  three 
were  now  standing  about  the  room.  "  Your  brother  has 
brought  me  a  piece  of  news.  It  ought  to  interest  you,  I 
should  think.  He  wants  to  marry,  and  out  of  all  the 
world,  he  has  chosen  Miss  French — the  youngest." 

Horace's  position  was  trying.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  his  hands,  and  he  kept  balancing  now  on  one 
foot,  now  on  the  other.  Nancy  had  her  eyes  averted  from 
him,  but  she  met  her  father's  look  gravely. 

"  Now,  I  want  to  ask  you,"  Mr.  Lord  proceeded, 
"whether  you  consider  Miss  French  a  suitable  wife  for 
your  brother  ?  Just  give  me  a  plain  yes  or  no." 

"I  certainly  don't,"  replied  the  girl,  barely  subduing 
the  tremor  of  her  voice. 

"  Both  my  children  are  not  fools,  thank  Heaven  !  Now 
tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  fault  you  have  to  find  with  the 
*  young  lady,'  as  your  brother  calls  her  ?  " 


IN  THE  YEAR   OF  JUBILEE.  39 

"  For  one  thing1,  I  don't  think  her  Horace's  equal.  She 
can't  really  be  called  a  lady." 

u  You  arc  listening  ? " 

Horace  bit  his  lip  in  mortification,  and  again  his  head 
swung  doggedly  from  side  to  side. 

"  We  might  pass  over  that,"  added  Mr.  Lord.  u  What 
about  her  character  ?  Is  there  any  good  point  in  her  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  she  means  any  harm.  But  she's  silly, 
and  I've  often  thought  her  selfish." 

"  You  are  listening  ? " 

Horace  lost  patience. 

"  Then  why  do  you  pretend  to  be  friends  with  her  ? " 
he  demanded  almost  fiercely. 

"I  don't,"  replied  his  sister,  with  a  note  of  disdain. 
"We  knew  each  other  at  school,  and  we  haven't  alto- 
gether broken  off,  that's  all." 

"  It  isn't  all ! "  shouted  the  young  man  011  a  high  key* 
"  If  you're  not  friendly  with  her  and  her  sisters,  you've 
been  a  great  hypocrite.  It's  only  just  lately  you  have 
begun  to  think  yourself  too  good  for  them.  They  used  to 
come  here,  and  you  went  to  them  ;  and  you  talked  just 
like  friends  would  do.  It's  abominable  to  turn  round  like 
this,  for  the  sake  of  taking  father's  side  against  me  ! " 

Mr.  Lord  regarded  his  son  contemptuously.  There  was 
a  rather  long  silence  ;  he  spoke  at  length  with  severe  de- 
liberation. 

"  When  you  are  ten  years  older,  you'll  know  a  good 
deal  more  about  young  women  as  they're  turned  out  in 
these  times.  You'll  have  heard  the  talk  of  men  who  have 
been  fools  enough  to  marry  choice  specimens.  When 
common  sense  has  a  chance  of  getting  in  a  word  with 
you,  you'll  understand  what  I  now  tell  you.  Wherever 
you  look  now-a-days  there's  sham  and  rottenness  ;  but  the 
most  worthless  creature  living  is  one  of  these  trashy, 
flashy  girls, — the  kind  of  girl  you  see  everywhere,  high 
and  low, — calling  themselves  '  ladies,' — thinking  them- 
selves too  good  for  any  honest,  womanly  work.  Town 
and  country,  it's  all  the  same.  They're  educated  ;  oh  yes, 


40  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

they're  educated !  What  sort  of  wives  do  they  make,  with 
their  education  ?  What  sort  of  mothers  are  they  ?  Before 
long,  there'll  be  no  such  thing  as  a  home.  They  don't 
know  what  the  word  means.  They'd  like  to  live  in  hotels, 
and  trollop  about  the  streets  day  and  night.  There  won't 
be  any  servants  much  longer ;  you're  lucky  if  you  find 
one  of  the  old  sort,  who  knows  how  to  light  a  fire  or  wash 
a  dish.  Go  into  the  houses  of  men  with  small  incomes  ; 
what  do  you  find  but  filth  and  disorder,  quarrelling  and 
misery  ?  Young  men  are  bad  enough,  I  know  that ;  they 
want  to  begin  where  their  fathers  left  off,  and  if  they  can't 
do  it  honestly,  they'll  embezzle  or  forge.  But  you'll  often 
find  there's  a  worthless  wife  at  the  bottom  of  it, — worrying 
and  nagging  because  she  has  a  smaller  house  than  some 
other  woman,  because  she  can't  get  silks  and  furs,  and 
wants  to  ride  in  a  cab  instead  of  an  omnibus.  It  is  as- 
tounding to  me  that  they  don't  get  their  necks  Avrung. 
Only  wait  a  bit ;  we  shall  come  to  that  presently !  " 

It  was  a  rare  thing  for  Stephen  Lord  to  talk  at  such 
length.  He  ceased  with  a  bitter  laugh,  and  sat  down  again 
in  his  chair.  Horace  and  his  sister  waited. 

"  I've  no  more  to  say,"  fell  from  their  father  at  length. 
"  Go  and  talk  about  it  together,  if  you  like." 

Horace  moved  sullenly  towards  the  door,  and  with  a 
glance  at  his  sister  went  out.  Nancy,  after  lingering  for  a 
moment,  spoke. 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  have  any  fear  of  it,  father." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  if  it  isn't  that  one,  it'll  be  another 
like  her.  There's  not  much  choice  for  a  lad  like  Hor- 
ace." 

Nancy  changed  her  purpose  of  leaving  the  room,  and 
drew  a  step  nearer. 

"  Don't  you  think  there  might  have  been  ? " 

Mr.  Lord  turned  to  look  at  her. 

"  How  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  you  angry  with  me — 

"  Say  what  you've  got  to  say,"  broke  in  her  father  im- 
patiently. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  41 

u  It  isn't  easy,  when  you  so  soon  lose  your  temper." 

"  My  girl," — for  once  he  gazed  at  her  directly, — "  if  you 
knew  all  I  have  gone  through  in  life,  you  wouldn't  won- 
der at  my  temper  being  spoilt. — What  do  you  mean  ? 
What  could  I  have  done  ? " 

She  stood  before  him,  and  spoke  with  diffidence. 

u  Don't  you  think  that  if  we  had  lived  in  a  different 
way,  Horace  and  I  might  have  had  friends  of  a  better 
kind  ? " 

"  A  different  way  ? — I  understand.  You  mean  I  ought 
to  have  had  a  big  house,  and  made  a  show.  Isn't  that 
it?" 

"  You  gave  us  a  good  education,"  replied  Nancy,  still  in 
the  same  tone,  "  and  we  might  have  associated  with  very 
different  people  from  those  you  have  been  speaking  of ; 
but  education  alone  isn't  enough.  One  must  live  as  the 
better  people  do." 

"  Exactly.  That's  your  way  of  thinking.  And  how  do 
you  know  that  I  could  afford  it,  to  begin  with  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  taken  that  for  granted." 

"Perhaps  not.  Young  women  take  a  good  deal  for 
granted  now-a-days.  But  supposing  you  were  right,  are 
you  silly  enough  to  think  that  richer  people  are  better 
people,  as  a  matter  of  course  ? " 

"  Not  as  a  matter  of  course,"  said  Nancy.  "  But  I'm 
quite  sure — I  know  from  what  I've  seen — that  there's  more 
chance  of  meeting  nice  people  among  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  nice  ? '  "  Mr.  Lord  was  lying 
back  in  his  chair,  and  spoke  thickly,  as  if  wearied.  "  Peo- 
ple who  can  talk  so  that  you  forget  they're  only  using 
words  they've  learnt  like  parrots  ? " 

"  No.  Just  the  contrary.  People  who  have  something 
to  say  worth  listening  to." 

"If  you  take  my  advice,  you'll  pay  less  attention  to 
what  people  say,  and  more  to  what  they  do.  What's  the 
good  of  a  friend  who  won't  come  to  see  you  because  you 
live  in  a  small  house  ?  That's  the  plain  English  of  it.  If 
I  had  done  as  I  thought  right,  I  should  never  have  sent 


42  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

you  to  school  at  all.  I  should  have  had  you  taught  at 
home  all  that's  necessary  to  make  a  good  girl  and  an 
honest  woman,  and  have  done  my  best  to  keep  you  away 
from  the  kind  of  life  that  I  hate.  But  I  hadn't  the  cour- 
age to  act  as  I  believed.  I  knew  how  the  times  were 
changing,  and  I  was  weak  enough  to  be  afraid  I  might 
do  you  an  injustice.  I  did  give  you  the  chance  of  making 
friends  among  better  people  than  your  father.  Didn't  I 
use  to  talk  to  you  about  your  school  friends,  and  encour- 
age you  when  they  seemed  of  the  right  kind  ?  And  now 
you  tell  me  that  they  don't  care  for  your  society  because 
you  live  in  a  decent,  unpretending  way.  I  should  think 
you're  better  without  such  friends." 

Nancy  reflected,  seemed  about  to  prolong  the  argu- 
ment, but  spoke  at  length  in  another  voice. 

"Well,  I  will  say  good-night,  father." 

It  was  not  usual  for  them  to  see  each  other  after  din- 
ner, so  that  a  good-night  could  seldom  be  exchanged.  The 
girl,  drawing  away,  expected  a  response;  she  saw  her 
father  nod,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Good-night,  father,"  she  repeated  from  a  distance. 

"Good-night,  Nancy,  good-night,"  came  in  impatient 
reply. 


VI 

ON  Tuesday  afternoon,  when,  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
the  great  London  highways  reeked  and  roared  in  celebra- 
tion of  Jubilee,  Nancy  and  her  friend  Miss  Morgan  walked 
up  Grove  Lane  to  Champion  Hill.  Here  and  there  a 
house  had  decked  itself  with  colours  of  loyalty ;  otherwise 
the  Lane  was  as  quiet  as  usual. 

Champion  Hill  is  a  gravel  byway,  overhung  with 
trees ;  large  houses  and  spacious  gardens  on  either  hand. 
Here  the  heat  of  the  sun  was  tempered.  A  carriage  rolled 
softly  along ;  a  nurse  with  well-dressed  children  loitered 
in  the  shade.  One  might  have  imagined  it  a  country  road, 
so  profound  the  stillness  and  so  leafy  the  prospect. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  43 

A  year  ago,  Jessica  Morgan  had  obtained  a  three 
months'  engagement  as  governess  to  two  little  girls,  who 
were  sent  under  her  care  to  the  house  of  their  grandmother 
at  Teigiimouth.  Their  father,  Mr.  Vawdrey  of  Champion 
Hill,  had  recently  lost  his  wife  through  an  illness  con- 
tracted at  a  horse-race,  where  the  lady  sat  in  wind  and 
rain  for  some  hours.  The  children  knew  little  of  what  is 
learnt  from  books,  but  were  surprisingly  well  informed  on 
matters  of  which  they  ought  to  have  known  nothing  ;  they 
talked  of  theatres  and  race-courses,  of  "  the  new  murderer  " 
at  Tussaud's,  of  police-news,  of  notorious  spendthrifts  and 
demireps;  discussed  their  grown-up  acquaintances  with 
precocious  understanding,  and  repeated  scandalous  insinu- 
ations which  could  have  no  meaning  for  them.  Jessica 
was  supposed  to  teach  them  for  two  hours  daily ;  she  found 
it  an  impossibility.  Nevertheless  a  liking  grew  up  be- 
tween her  and  her  charges,  and,  save  by  their  refusal  to 
study,  the  children  gave  her  no  trouble ;  they  were  abun- 
dantly good-natured,  they  laughed  and  sported  all  day 
long,  and  did  their  best  to  put  life  into  the  pale,  over- 
worked governess. 

Whilst  living  thus  at  the  seaside,  Jessica  was  delighted 
by  the  arrival  of  Nancy  Lord,  who  came  to  Teignmouth 
for  a  summer  holiday.  With  her  came  Mary  Woodruff. 
The  faithful  servant  had  been  ill ;  Mr.  Lord  sent  her  down 
into  Devon  to  make  a  complete  recovery,  and  to  act  as 
Nancy's  humble  chaperon.  Nancy's  stay  was  for  three 
weeks.  The  friends  saw  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  and 
Miss  Lord  had  the  honour  of  being  presented  to  Mrs.  Tar- 
rant,  the  old  lady  with  whom  Jessica  lived,  Mr.  Vawdrey's 
mother-in-law.  At  the  age  of  three  score  and  ten,  Mrs. 
Tarrant  still  led  an  active  life,  and  talked  with  great  volu- 
bility, chiefly  of  herself ;  Nancy  learnt  from  her  that  she 
had  been  married  at  seventeen,  and  had  had  two  children, 
a  son  and  a  daughter,  both  deceased  ;  of  relatives  there  re- 
mained to  her  only  Mr.  Vawdrey  and  his  family,  and  a 
grandson,  Lionel  Tarrant. 

One  evening,  as  Jessica  returned  from  a  ramble  with 


44  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  children,  they  encountered  a  young  man  who  was 
greeted,  without  much  fervour,  as  "  cousin  Lionel."  Mr. 
Tarrant  professed  himself  merely  a  passing  visitant;  he 
had  come  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  his  grandmother, 
and  in  a  day  or  two  must  keep  an  appointment  with 
friends  elsewhere.  Notwithstanding  this  announcement, 
he  remained  at  Teignmouth  for  a  fortnight,  exhibiting  a 
pious  assiduity  in  his  attendance  upon  the  old  lady.  Nat- 
urally, he  made  acquaintance  with  Miss  Lord,  whom  his 
cousins  regarded  as  a  great  acquisition,  so  vivacious  was 
she,  so  ready  to  take  part  in  any  kind  of  lively  amuse- 
ment. Mr.  Tarrant  had  been  at  Oxford ;  his  speech  was 
marked  with  the  University  accent ;  he  talked  little,  and 
seemed  to  prefer  his  own  society.  In  conversation  with 
Nancy,  though  scrupulously  courteous  and  perfectly 
good-natured,  he  never  forgot  that  she  was  the  friend 
of  his  cousins'  governess,  that  their  intercourse  must 
be  viewed  as  an  irregular  sort  of  thing,  and  that  it  be- 
hooved him  to  support  his  dignity  whilst  condescend- 
ing to  a  social  inferior.  So,  at  all  events,  it  struck 
Miss  Lord,  very  sensitive  in  such  matters.  Fond  of  fit- 
ting people  with  nicknames,  she  called  this  young  man 
sometimes  "His  Royal  Highness,"  sometimes  "His  Ma- 
jesty." 

Of  Mr.  Tarrant's  station  in  life  nothing  was  discovered. 
His  grandmother,  though  seemingly  in  possession  of  am- 
ple means,  betrayed  an  indifferent  education,  and  in  her 
flow  of  gossip  never  referred  to  ancestral  dignities,  never 
made  mention  of  the  calling  her  husband  had  pursued. 
Mr.  Vawdrey  was  known  to  be  "  in  business," — a  business 
which  must  be  tolerably  lucrative. 

On  their  return  to  London,  the  children  passed  from 
Miss  Morgan's  care  into  that  of  Mrs.  Baker,  who  kept  house 
for  the  widower  at  Champion  Hill ;  but  Jessica  did  not 
wholly  lose  sight  of  them,  and,  at  their  request,  she  per- 
suaded Nancy  Lord  to  make  an  occasional  call  with  her. 
Mrs.  Baker  (relict,  it  was  understood,  of  a  military  officer 
who  had  fallen  in  Eastern  warfare)  behaved  to  the  young 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  45 

ladies  With  much  friendliness.  They  did  not  meet  Mr. 
Vawdrey. 

Early  in  the  following  year,  old  Mrs.  Tarrant,  forsak- 
ing Teigmnouth,  came  to  live  under  her  son-in-law's  roof ; 
the  winter  had  tried  her  health,  and  henceforth  she  seldom 
left  home. 

To-day,  as  on  former  occasions  (only  two  or  three  in 
all),  Nancy  was  reluctant  to  approach  the  big  house ;  its 
imposing  front  made  her  feel  that  she  came  only  on  suffer- 
ance; probably  even  Mrs.  Baker  did  not  regard  her  as 
having  a  right  to  call  here  on  terms  of  equality.  Yet  the 
place  touched  her  curiosity  and  her  imagination  ;  she  liked 
to  study  the  luxurious  appointments  within,  and  to  walk 
about  the  neglected  but  pleasant  garden,  quiet  and  secluded 
as  if  whole  counties  divided  it  from  Camberwell.  In  the 
hall  she  and  Jessica  were  at  once  welcomed  by  the  chil- 
dren, who  first  informed  them  that  tea  would  be  served 
out  of  doors,  and  next  made  known  that  "  cousin  Lionel " 
was  here,  in  Mrs.  Tarrant's  drawing-room.  The  second 
piece  of  news  vexed  Nancy ;  she  resolved  never  to  come 
again,  unless  on  formal  invitation. 

Mrs.  Baker,  an  agreeable  woman,  received  them  as  if 
she  were  the  mistress  of  the  house.  With  Jessica  she 
chatted  about  matters  examinational,  which  she  seemed 
thoroughly  to  understand ;  with  Miss  Lord  she  talked  of 
wider  subjects,  in  a  tone  not  unpleasing  to  Nancy,  seeing 
that  it  presumed,  on  her  part,  some  knowledge  of  the  polite 
world.  It  was  observable  that  Mr.  Vawdrey's  daughters 
had  benefited  by  the  superintendence  of  this  lady ;  they  110 
longer  gossiped  loudly  about  murders  and  scandals,  but 
demeaned  themselves  more  as  became  their  years. 

On  the  arrival  of  other  ladies  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Baker, 
the  children  drew  their  friends  away  into  the  garden, 
where  tea  now  awaited  them.  Amid  the  trees  and  flowers 
time  passed  not  unpleasantly,  until,  on  happening  to  turn 
her  head,  Nancy  perceived  at  a  distance  the  approaching 
figure  of  Mr.  Lionel  Tarrant.  He  sauntered  over  the  grass 
with  easy,  indolent  step ;  his  straw  hat  and  light  lounge 
4 


46  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

costume  (excellent  tailoring)  suited  the  season  and  the 
place.  Jessica,  who  regarded  the  young  man  with  some- 
thing of  awe,  stood  up  to  shake  hands,  but  Miss  Lord  kept 
her  place  in  the  garden  chair. 

"  Did  you  see  the  procession  ? "  Tarrant  inquired.  "  Ah, 
then  I  can  give  you  very  important  news — thrilling  news. 
I  know  the  colour  of  the  Queen's  bonnet,  and  of  her 
parasol." 

"  Please  don't  keep  us  in  suspense,"  said  Nancy. 

"They  were  of  pale  primrose.  Touching,  don't  you 
think  ? " 

He  had  seated  himself  crosswise  on  a  camp-stool,  and 
seemed  to  be  admiring  the  contour  of  his  brown  boots. 
Lionel's  age  was  not  more  than  seveii-and-twenty ;  he  en- 
joyed sound  health,  and  his  face  signified  contentment 
with  the  scheme  of  things  as  it  concerned  himself ;  but  a 
chronic  languor  possessed  him.  It  might  be  sheer  laziness, 
possibly  a  result  of  that  mental  habit,  discernible  in  his 
look,  whereby  he  had  come  to  regard  his  own  judgment 
as  the  criterion  of  all  matters  in  heaven  and  earth.  Yet 
the  conceit  which  relaxed  his  muscles  was  in  the  main 
amiable  ;  it  never  repelled  as  does  the  conceit  of  a  fop  or  a 
weakling  or  a  vulgar  person ;  he  could  laugh  heartily, 
even  with  his  own  affectations  for  a  source  of  amusement. 
Of  personal  vanity  he  had  little,  though  women  esteemed 
him  good-looking ;  his  steady,  indolent  gaze  made  denial 
of  such  preoccupation.  Nor  could  he  be  regarded  as  emas- 
culate ;  his  movements  merely  disguised  the  natural  vigour 
of  a  manly  frame,  and  his  conversational  trifling  hinted 
an  intellectual  reserve,  a  latent  power  of  mind,  obvious 
enough  in  the  lines  of  his  countenance. 

Nancy  was  excusable  for  supposing  that  he  viewed  her 
slightingly.  He  spoke  as  one  who  did  not  expect  to  be 
quite  understood  by  such  a  hearer,  addressing  her,  without 
the  familiarity,  much  as  he  addressed  his  young  cousins. 
To  her,  his  careful  observance  of  formalities  seemed  the 
reverse  of  flattering ;  she  felt  sure  that  with  young  women 
in  his  own  circle  he  would  allow  himself  much  more  free- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  47 

dom.  Whether  the  disparagement  applied  to  her  intellect 
or  to  her  social  status  might  be  a  question ;  Nancy  could 
not  decide  which  of  the  two  she  would  prefer.  To-day  an 
especial  uneasiness  troubled  her  from  the  first  moment  of 
his  appearance ;  she  felt  a  stronger  prompting  than  hitherto 
to  assert  herself,  and,  if  possible,  to  surprise  Mr.  Tarrant. 
But,  as  if  he  understood  her  thought,  his  manner  became 
only  more  bland,  his  calm  aloofness  more  pronounced. 

The  children,  who  were  never  at  ease  in  their  cousin's 
presence,  succeeded  in  drawing  Jessica  apart,  and  chattered 
to  her  about  the  educational  methods  imposed  by  Mrs. 
Baker,  airing  many  grievances.  They  nourished  a  hope 
that  Miss  Morgan  might  again  became  their  governess; 
lessons  down  at  Teigiimouth  had  been  nothing  like  so  op- 
pressive as  here  at  Champion  Hill. 

Tarrant,  meanwhile,  having  drunk  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
touched  his  moustache  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  trans- 
ferred himself  from  the  camp-stool  to  the  basket  chair 
vacated  by  Jessica.  He  was  now  further  from  Nancy,  but 
facing  her. 

"I  have  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Bellamy,"  fell  from 
him,  in  the  same  tone  of  idle  good  nature.  "  Do  you  know 
her  ?  She  has  but  one  subject  of  conversation ;  an  en- 
grossing topic,  to  be  sure ;  namely,  her  servants.  Do  you 
give  much  thought  to  the  great  servant  question  ?  I  have 
my  own  modest  view  of  the  matter.  It  may  not  be  novel, 
but  my  mind  has  worked  upon  it  in  the  night  watches." 

Nancy,  resolved  not  to  smile,  found  herself  smiling. 
Not  so  much  at  what  he  said,  as  at  the  manner  of  it.  Her 
resentment  was  falling  away ;  she  felt  the  influence  of  this 
imperturbable  geniality. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  my  theory  ? " 

He  talked  with  less  reserve  than  on  the  last  occasion 
when  they  had  sat  together.  The  mellow  sunlight,  the 
garden  odours,  the  warm,  still  air,  favoured  a  growth  of 
intimacy. 

"  By  all  means,"  was  Nancy's  reply. 

"  We  must  begin  by  admitting  that  the  ordinary  worn- 


48  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

an  hates  nothing  so  much  as  to  have  another  woman  set 
in  authority  over  her."  He  paused,  and  laughed  lazily. 
"Now,  before  the  triumph  of  glorious  Democracy,  only 
those  women  kept  servants  who  were  capable  of  rule, — 
who  had  by  birth  the  instinct  of  authority.  They  knew 
themselves  the  natural  superiors  of  their  domestics,  and 
went  through  an  education  fitting  them  to  rule.  Things 
worked  very  well ;  no  servant-difficulty  existed.  Now-a- 
days,  every  woman  who  can  afford  it  must  have  another 
woman  to  wait  upon  her,  no  matter  how  silly,  or  vulgar, 
or  depraved  she  may  be ;  the  result,  of  course,  is  a  spirit 
of  rebellion  in  the  kitchen.  Who  could  have  expected 
anything  else  ? " 

Nancy  played  with  a  dandelion  she  had  plucked,  and 
gave  sign  neither  of  assent  nor  disagreement. 

"  Mrs.  Bellamy,"  continued  the  young  man,  "  marvels 
that  servants  revolt  against  her.  What  could  be  more 
natural  ?  The  servants  have  learnt  that  splendid  doctrine 
that  every  one  is  as  good  as  everybody  else,  and  Mrs. 
Bellamy  is  by  no  means  the  person  to  make  them  see 
things  differently.  And  this  kind  of  thing  is  going  on 
in  numberless  houses — an  utterly  incompetent  mistress 
and  a  democratic  maid  in  spirited  revolt.  The  incompe- 
tents, being  in  so  vast  a  majority,  will  sooner  or  later  spoil 
all  the  servants  in  the  country." 

"  You  should  make  an  article  of  it,"  said  Nancy,  "  and 
send  it  to  The  Nineteenth  Century'' 

"  So  I  might."  He  paused,  and  added  casually,  "  You 
read  The  Nineteenth  Century  ? " 

"  Now  and  then." 

Nancy  felt  herself  an  impostor,  for  of  leading  reviews 
she  knew  little  more  than  the  names.  And  Tarrant's 
look,  so  steady,  yet  so  good-tempered,  disturbed  her  con- 
science with  the  fear  that  he  saw  through  her.  She  was 
coming  wretchedly  out  of  this  dialogue,  in  which  she  had 
meant  to  make  a  figure. 

He  changed  the  subject ;  was  it  merely  to  spare  her  ? 

"  Shall  you  go  to  Teignmouth  again  this  year  ? " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  49 

"  I  don't  know  yet.    I  think  not." 

Silence  followed.  Tarrant,  to  judge  from  his  face,  was 
absorbed  in  pleasant  thought ;  Nancy,  on  the  other  hand, 
felt  so  ill  at  ease  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  rising,  when 
his  voice  checked  her. 

"  I  have  an  idea  " — he  spoke  dreamily — "  of  going  to 
spend  next  winter  in  the  Bahamas." 

"  Why  the  Bahamas?" 

Speaking  with  all  the  carelessness  she  could  command, 
Nancy  shivered  a  little.  Spite  of  her  "  culture,"  she  had 
but  the  vaguest  notion  where  the  Bahamas  were.  To  be- 
tray ignorance  would  be  dreadful.  A  suspicion  awoke  in 
her  that  Tarrant,  surprised  by  her  seeming  familiarity 
with  current  literature,  was  craftily  testing  the  actual 
qualtity  of  her  education.  Upon  the  shiver  followed  a 
glow,  and,  in  fear  lest  her  cheeks  would  redden,  she  grew 
angry. 

He  was  replying. 

"  Partly  because  it  is  a  delightful  winter  climate ; 
partly  because  I  have  a  friend  there  ;  partly  because  the 
islands  are  interesting.  A  man  I  knew  at  Oxford  has 
gone  out  there,  and  is  likely  to  stay.  His  father  owns 
nearly  the  whole  of  an  island ;  and  as  he's  in  very  bad 
health,  my  friend  may  soon  come  into  possession.  When 
he  does,  he's  going  to  astonish  the  natives." 

"  How  ? " 

A  vision  of  savages  flashed  before  Nancy's  mind.  She 
breathed  more  freely,  thinking  the  danger  past. 

"  Simply  by  making  a  fortune  out  of  an  estate  that  is 
lying  all  but  barren.  Before  the  emancipation  of  the 
niggers,  the  Bahamas  nourished  wonderfully ;  now  they 
have  fallen  to  decay,  and  ruled,  so  far  as  I  understand  it, 
by  a  particularly  contemptible  crew  of  native  whites,  who 
ought  all  to  be  kicked  into  the  sea.  My  friend's  father  is 
a  man  of  no  energy  ;  he  calls  himself  magistrate,  coroner, 
superintendent  of  the  customs,  and  a  dozen  other  things, 
but  seems  to  have  spent  his  time  for  years  in  lying  about, 
smoking  and  imbibing.  His  son,  I'm  afraid,  waits  im- 


50  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

patiently  for  the  old  man's  removal  to  a  better  world. 
He  believes  there  are  immense  possibilities  of  trade." 

Trying  hard  to  recollect  her  geography,  Miss  Lord 
affected  but  a  slight  interest. 

"  There's  no  direct  way  of  getting  there,"  Tarrant  pur- 
sued. "  What  route  should  you  suggest  ?  " 

She  was  right,  after  all.  He  wished  to  convict  her  of 
ignorance.  Her  cheeks  were  now  burning,  beyond  a 
doubt,  and  she  felt  revengeful. 

"  I  advise  you  to  make  inquiries  at  a  shipping-office," 
was  her  distant  reply. 

"  It  seems  " — he  was  smiling  at  Nancy — "  I  shall  have 
to  go  to  New  York,  and  then  take  the  Cuba  mail." 

"  Are  you  going  to  join  your  friend  in  business  ? " 

"Business,  I  think,  is  hardly  my  vocation." 

There  was  a  tremor  on  Nancy's  lips,  and  about  her  eye- 
lids. She  said  abruptly : 

"  I  thought  you  were  perhaps  in  business  ? " 

"  Did  you  ?    What  suggested  it  ? " 

Tarrant  looked  fixedly  at  her ;  in  his  expression,  as  in 
his  voice,  she  detected  a  slight  disdain,  and  that  decided 
her  to  the  utterance  of  the  next  words. 

"Oh" — she  had  assumed  an  ingenuous  air — "there's 
the  Black  Lead  that  bears  your  name.  Haven't  you 
something  to  do  with  it  ? " 

She  durst  not  watch  him,  but  a  change  of  his  counte- 
nance was  distinctly  perceptible,  and  for  the  moment 
caused  her  a  keen  gratification.  His  eyes  had  widened, 
his  lips  had  set  themselves ;  he  looked  at  once  startled  and 
mortified. 

"  Black  lead  ? "  The  words  fell  slowly,  in  a  voice  un- 
like that  she  had  been  hearing.  "  No.  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it." 

The  silence  was  dreadful.  Nancy  endeavoured  to  rise, 
but  her  limbs  would  not  do  their  office.  Then,  her  eyes 
fixed  011  the  grass,  she  became  aware  that  Tarrant  himself 
had  stood  up. 

"  Where  are  the  children  ? "  he  was  saying  absently. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  51 

He  descried  them  afar  off  with  Miss  Morgan,  and  be- 
gan to  saunter  in  that  direction.  As  soon  as  his  back  was 
turned,  Nancy  rose  and  began  to  walk  towards  the  house. 
In  a  few  moments  Jessica  and  the  girls  were  with  her. 

"  I  think  we  must  go,"  she  said. 

They  entered,  and  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Baker,  who  sat 
alone  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Did  you  say  good-bye  to  Mr.  Tarrant  ? "  Jessica  asked, 
as  they  came  forth  again. 

"Yes." 

"  I  didn't.    But  I  suppose  it  doesn't  matter." 

Nancy  had  thought  of  telling  her  friend  what  she 
had  done,  of  boasting  that  she  had  asked  the  impossible 
question.  But  now  she  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  and 
something  more  than  ashamed.  Never  again  could  she 
enter  this  garden.  And  it  seemed  to  her  that,  by  a  piece 
of  outrageous,  of  wanton  folly,  she  had  forever  excluded 
herself  from  the  society  of  all  "  superior  "  people. 


VII 

"  Now,  I  look  at  it  in  this  way.  It's  to  celebrate  the 
fiftieth  year  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria, — yes :  but  at 
the  same  time,  and  far  more,  it's  to  celebrate  the  comple- 
tion of  fifty  years  of  Progress.  National  Progress,  with- 
out precedent  in  the  history  of  mankind  !  One  may  say, 
indeed,  Progress  of  the  Human  Race.  Only  think  what 
has  been  done  in  this  half-century:  only  think  of  it! 
Compare  England  now,  compare  the  world,  with  what  it 
was  in  1837.  It  takes  away  one's  breath ! " 

Thus  Mr.  Samuel  Bennett  Barmby,  as  he  stood  swaying 
forward  upon  his  toes,  his  boots  creaking.  Nancy  and 
Jessica  listened  to  him.  They  were  ready  to  start  on  the 
evening's  expedition,  but  Horace  had  not  yet  come  home, 
and  on  the  chance  of  his  arrival  they  would  wait  a  few 
minutes  longer. 

"  I  shall  make  this  the  subject  of  a  paper  for  our  Society 


52  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

next  winter — the  Age  of  Progress.  And  with  special  ref- 
erence to  one  particular — the  Press.  Only  think  now,  of 
the  difference  between  our  newspapers,  all  our  periodicals 
of  to-day,  and  those  fifty  years  ago.  Did  you  ever  really 
consider,  Miss  Morgan,  what  a  marvellous  thing  one  of 
our  great  newspapers  really  is  ?  Printed  in  another  way 
it  would  make  a  volume — absolutely ;  a  positive  volume  ; 
packed  with  thought  and  information.  And  all  for  the 
ridiculous  price  of  one  penny ! " 

He  laughed ;  a  high,  chuckling,  crowing  laugh ;  the 
laugh  of  triumphant  optimism.  Of  the  man's  sincerity 
there  could  be  no  question ;  it  beamed  from  his  shining 
forehead,  his  pointed  nose;  glistened  in  his  prominent 
eyes.  He  had  a  tall,  lank  figure,  irreproachably  clad  in  a 
suit  of  grey :  frock  coat,  and  waistcoat  revealing  an  ex- 
panse of  white  shirt.  His  cuffs  were  magnificent,  and  the 
hands  worthy  of  them.  A  stand-up  collar,  of  remarkable 
stiffness,  kept  his  head  at  the  proper  level  of  self-respect. 

u  By  the  bye,  Miss  Lord,  are  you  aware  that  the  Chinese 
Empire,  with  four  hundred  MILLION  inhabitants,  has  only 
ten  daily  papers  ?  Positively ;  only  ten." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  asked  Nancy. 

"  I  saw  it  stated  in  a  paper.  That  helps  one  to  grasp 
the  difference  between  civilisation  and  barbarism.  One 
doesn't  think  clearly  enough  of  common  things.  Now 
that's  one  of  the  benefits  one  gets  from  Carlyle.  Carlyle 
teaches  one  to  see  the  marvellous  in  everyday  life.  Of 
course  in  many  things  I  don't  agree  with  him,  but  I  shall 
never  lose  an  opportunity  of  expressing  my  gratitude  to 
Carlyle.  Carlyle  and  Gurty!  Yes,  Carlyle  and  Gurty; 
those  two  authors  are  an  education  in  themselves." 

He  uttered  a  long  u  Ah  ! "  and  moved  his  lips  as  if  sa- 
vouring a  delicious  morsel. 

"  Now  here's  an  interesting  thing.  If  all  the  cabs  in 
London  were  put  end  to  end,"— he  paused  between  the 
words,  gravely, — "  what  do  you  think,  Miss  Morgan,  would 
be  the  total  length  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  have  110  idea,  Mr.  Barmby." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  53 

"  Forty  miles — positively  !    Forty  miles  of  cabs !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  asked  Nancy. 

"  I  saw  it  stated  in  a  paper." 

The  girls  glanced  at  each  other,  and  smiled.  Barmby 
beamed  upon  them  with  the  benevolence  of  a  man  who 
knew  his  advantages,  personal  and  social. 

And  at  this  moment  Horace  Lord  came  in.  He  had 
not  the  fresh  appearance  which  usually  distinguished  him  ; 
his  face  was  stained  with  perspiration,  his  collar  had  be- 
come limp,  the  flower  at  his  buttonhole  hung  faded. 

"  Well,  here  I  am.     Are  you  going  ? " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  you  have  kept  us  waiting,"  said 
his  sister. 

"  Awf  ly  sorry.     Couldn't  get  here  before." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  had  not  altogether  the  command  of 
his  tongue,  and  with  a  fixed  meaningless  smile. 

"We  had  better  not  delay,"  said  Barinby,  taking  up  his 
hat.  u  Seven  o'clock.  We  ought  to  be  at  Charing  Cross 
before  eight ;  that  will  allow  us  about  three  hours." 

They  set  forth  at  once.  By  private  agreement  between 
the  girls,  Jessica  Morgan  attached  herself  to  Mr.  Barmby, 
allowing  Nancy  to  follow  with  her  brother,  as  they  walked 
rapidly  towards  Camber  well  Green.  Horace  kept  hum- 
ming popular  airs  ;  his  hat  had  fallen  a  little  to  the  side, 
and  he  swung  his  cane  carelessly.  His  sister  asked  him 
what  he  had  been  doing  all  day. 

"  Oh,  going  about.  I  met  some  fellows  after  the  pro- 
cession. We  had  a  splendid  view,  up  there  on  the  top  of 
Waterloo  House." 

"  Did  Fanny  go  home  ? " 

"  We  met  her  sisters,  and  had  some  lunch  at  a  restau- 
rant. Look  here ;  you  don't  want  me  to-night.  You  won't 
mind  if  I  get  lost  in  the  crowd  ?  Barmby  will  be  quite 
enough  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  You  are  going  to  meet  her  again,  I  suppose  ? " 

Horace  nodded. 

"  We  had  better  agree  on  a  rendezvous  at  a  certain  time. 
I  say,  Barmby,  just  a  moment ;  if  any  of  us  should  get 


54  IN  THE   YEAH  OF  JUBILEE. 

separated,  we  had  better  know  where  to  meet,  for  coming 
home." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  fear  of  that." 

"  All  the  same,  it  might  happen.  There'll  be  a  tremen- 
dous crush,  you  know.  Suppose  we  say  the  place  where 
the  trams  stop,  south  of  Westminster  Bridge,  and  the  time 
a  quarter  to  eleven  ? " 

This  was  agreed  upon. 

At  Camberwell  Green  they  mingled  with  a  confused 
rush  of  hilarious  crowds,  amid  a  clattering  of  cabs  and 
omnibuses,  a  jingling  of  tram-car  bells.  Public  houses 
sent  forth  their  alcoholic  odours  upon  the  hot  air.  Samuel 
Barmby,  joyous  in  his  protectorship  of  two  young  ladies, 
for  he  regarded  Horace  as  a  mere  boy,  bustled  about  them 
whilst  they  stood  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  Westmin- 
ster car. 

"  It'll  have  to  be  a  gallant  rush !  You  would  rather 
be  outside,  wouldn't  you,  Miss  Lord  ?  Here  it  comes : 
charge ! " 

But  the  charge  was  ineffectual  for  their  purpose.  A 
throng  of  far  more  resolute  and  more  sinewy  people  swept 
them  aside,  and  seized  every  vacant  place  on  the  top  of  the 
vehicle.  Only  with  much  struggle  did  they  obtain  places 
within.  In  an  ordinary  mood,  Nancy  would  have  resented 
this  hustling  of  her  person  by  the  profane  public ;  as  it 
was,  she  half  enjoyed  the  tumult,  and  looked  forward  to 
get  more  of  it  along  the  packed  streets,  with  a  sense  that 
she  might  as  well  amuse  herself  in  vulgar  ways,  since 
nothing  better  was  attainable.  This  did  not,  however, 
modify  her  contempt  of  Samuel  Barmby ;  it  seemed  never 
to  have  occurred  to  him  that  the  rough-and-tumble  might 
be  avoided,  and  time  gained,  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
taking  a  cab. 

Sitting  opposite  to  Samuel,  she  avoided  his  persistent 
glances  by  reading  the  rows  of  advertisements  above  his 
head.  Somebody's  "  Blue  ; "  somebody's  "  Soap  ;  "  some- 
body's "  High-class  Jams ; "  and  behold,  inserted  between 
the  Soap  and  the  Jam — "  God  so  loved  the  world,  that  He 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  55 

gave  His  only-begotten  Son,  that  whoso  believeth  in  Him 
should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life."  Nancy  pe- 
rused the  passage  without  perception  of  incongruity,  with- 
out emotion  of  any  kind.  Her  religion  had  long  since 
fallen  to  pieces,  and  universal  defilement  of  Scriptural 
phrase  by  the  associations  of  the  market-place  had  in  this 
respect  blunted  her  sensibilities. 

Barmby  was  talking  to  Jessica  Morgan.  She  caught 
his  words  now  and  then. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  is  the  smallest  tree  in  the 
world  ? — No,  it's  the  Greenland  birch.  Its  full-grown 
height  is  only  three  inches — positively !  But  it  spreads 
over  several  feet." 

Nancy  was  tempted  to  lean  forward  and  say,  "  How  do 
you  know  ? "  But  the  jest  seemed  to  involve  her  in  too 
much  familiarity  with  Mr.  Barmby ;  for  her  own  peace  it 
was  better  to  treat  him  with  all  possible  coldness. 

A  woman  near  her  talked  loudly  about  the  procession, 
with  special  reference  to  a  personage  whom  she  called 
"Prince  of  Wiles."  This  enthusiast  declared  with  pride 
that  she  had  stood  at  a  certain  street  corner  for  seven 
hours,  accompanied  by  a  child  of  five  years  old,  the  same 
who  now  sat  on  her  lap,  nodding  in  utter  weariness ;  to- 
gether they  were  going  to  see  the  illuminations,  and  w^alk 
about,  with  intervals  devoted  to  refreshments,  for  several 
hours  more.  Beyond  sat  a  working-man,  overtaken  with 
liquor,  Avho  railed  vehemently  at  the  Jubilee,  and  in  110 
measured  terms  gave  his  opinion  of  our  Sovereign  Lady ; 
the  whole  thing  was  a  "  lay,"  an  occasion  for  filling  the 
Royal  pocket,  and  it  had  succeeded  to  the  tune  of  some- 
thing like  half  a  million  of  money,  wheedled,  most  of  it, 
from  the  imbecile  poor.  "  Shut  up  ! "  roared  a  loyalist, 
whose  patience  could  endure  no  longer.  "  We're  not  go- 
ing to  let  a  boozing  blackguard  like  you  talk  in  that  way 
about  'er  Majesty ! "  Thereupon,  retort  of  insult,  chal- 
lenge to  combat,  clamour  from  many  throats,  deep  and 
shrill.  Nancy  laughed,  and  would  rather  have  enjoyed 
it  if  the  men  had  fought. 


56  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

At  Westminster  Bridge  all  jumped  confusedly  into  the 
street  and  ran  for  the  pavement.  It  was  still  broad  day- 
light; the  sun — a  potenate  who  keeps  no  Jubilee — drop- 
ping westward  amid  the  hues  of  summer  eventide,  was  un- 
marked, for  all  his  splendour,  by  tlie  roaring  multitudes. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  leave  us  ? "  Nancy  inquired 
of  her  brother. 

"  Charing  Cross,  or  somewhere  about  there." 

"  Keep  by  me  till  then." 

Barmby  was  endeavouring  to  secure  her  companion- 
ship. He  began  to  cross  the  bridge  at  her  side,  but  Nancy 
turned  and  bade  him  attend  upon  Miss  Morgan,  saying 
that  she  wished  to  talk  with  her  brother.  In  this  order 
they  moved  towards  Parliament  Street,  where  the  crowd 
began  to  thicken. 

u  Now  let  us  decide  upon  our  route,"  exclaimed  Barmby, 
with  the  air  of  a  popular  leader  planning  a  great  demon- 
stration. "  Miss  Lord,  we  will  be  directed  by  your  wishes. 
Where  wTould  you  like  to  be  when  the  lighting-up 
begins  ? " 

"  I  don't  care.  What  does  it  matter  ?  Let  us  go  straight 
on  and  see  whatever  comes  in  our  way." 

"  That's  the  right  spirit !  Let  us  give  ourselves  up  to 
the  occasion  !  We  can't  be  wrong  in  making  for  Trafal- 
gar Square.  Advance ! " 

They  followed  upon  a  group  of  reeling  lads  and  girls, 
who  yelled  in  chorus  the  popular  song  of  the  day,  a  senti- 
mental one  as  it  happened — 

"  Do  not  forget  me, 
Do  not  forget  me, 

Think  sometimes  of  me  still " 

Nancy  was  working  herself  into  a  nervous,  excited 
state.  She  felt  it  impossible  to  walk  on  and  on  under 
Barmby's  protection,  listening  to  his  atrocious  common- 
places, his  enthusiasms  of  the  Young  Men's  Debating  So- 
ciety. The  glow  of  midsummer  had  entered  into  her 
blood  ;  she  resolved  to  taste  independence,  to  mingle  with 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  57 

the  limitless  crowd  as  one  of  its  units,  borne  in  whatever 
direction.  That  song  of  the  streets  pleased  her,  made  sym- 
pathetic appeal  to  her ;  she  would  have  liked  to  join  in  it. 

Just  behind  her — it  was  on  the  broad  pavement  at 
Whitehall — some  one  spoke  her  name. 

"  Miss  Lord !  Why,  who  would  have  expected  to  see 
you  here  ?  Shouldn't  have  dared  to  think  of  such  a  thing ; 
upon  my  word,  I  shouldn't ! " 

A  man  of  about  thirty,  dressed  without  much  care, 
middle-sized,  wiry,  ruddy  of  cheek,  and  his  coarse  but 
strong  features  vivid  with  festive  energy,  held  a  hand  to 
her.  Luckworth  Crewe  was  his  name.  Nancy  had  come 
to  know  him  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Peachey,  where  "from 
time  to  time  she  had  met  various  people  unrecognised  in 
her  own  home.  His  tongue  bewrayed  him  for  a  native  of 
some  northern  county ;  his  manner  had  no  polish,  but  a 
genuine  heartiness  which  would  have  atoned  for  many 
defects.  Horace,  who  also  knew  him,  offered  a  .friendly 
greeting ;  but  Samuel  Barmby,  when  the  voice  caught  his 
ear,  regarded  this  intruder  with  cold  surprise. 

"  May  I  walk  on  with  you  ? "  Crewe  asked,  when  he 
saw  that  Miss  Lord  felt  no  distaste  for  his  company. 

Nancy  deigned  not  even  a  glance  at  her  nominal 
protector. 

"  If  you  are  going  our  way,"  she  replied. 

Barmby,  his  dignity  unobserved,  strode  on  with  Miss 
Morgan,  of  whom  he  sought  information  concerning  the 
loud-voiced  man.  Crewe  talked  away. 

"  So  you've  come  out  to  have  a  look  at  it,  after  all.  I 
saw  the  Miss  Frenches  last  Sunday,  and  they  told  me  you 
cared  no  more  for  the  Jubilee  than  for  a  dog-fight.  Of 
course  I  wasn't  surprised ;  you've  other  things  to  think 
about.  But  it's  worth  seeing,  that's  my  opinion.  Were 
you  out  this  morning  ? " 

"  No.     I  don't  care  for  Royalties." 

"  No  more  do  I.  Expensive  humbugs,  that's  what  I 
call  'em.  But  I  had  a  look  at  them,  for  all  that.  The 
Crown  Prince  was  worth  seeing ;  yes,  he  really  was.  I'm 


58  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

not  so  prejudiced  as  to  deny  that.  He's  the  kind  of  chap  I 
should  like  to  get  hold  of,  and  have  a  bit  of  a  talk  with, 
and  ask  him  what  he  thought  about  things  in  general. 
It's  been  a  big  affair,  hasn't  it  ?  I  know  a  chap  who  made 
a  Jubilee  Perfume,  and  he's  netting  something  like  a 
hundred  pounds  a  day." 

"  Have  you  any  Jubilee  speculation  on  hand  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me !  It  makes  me  mad.  I  had  a  really 
big  thing, — a  Jubilee  Drink, — a  teetotal  beverage ;  the  kind 
of  thing  that  would  have  sold  itself,  this  weather.  A 
friend  of  mine  hit  on  it,  a  clerk  in  a  City  warehouse,  one 
of  the  cleverest  chaps  I  ever  knew.  It  really  was  the 
drink;  I've  never  tasted  anything  like  it.  Why,  there's 
the  biggest  fortune  on  record  waiting  for  the  man  who 
can  supply  the  drink  for  total-abstainers.  And  this  friend 
of  mine  had  it.  He  gave  me  some  to  taste  one  night, 
about  a  month  ago,  and  I  roared  with  delight.  It  was  all 
arranged.  I  undertook  to  find  enough  capital  to  start 
with,  and  to  manage  the  concern.  I  would  have  given  up 
.my  work  with  Bullock  and  Freeman.  I'd  have  gone  in, 
tooth  and  nail,  for  that  drink  !  I  sat  up  all  one  night  try- 
ing to  find  a  name  for  it ;  but  couldn't  hit  on  the  right 
one.  A  name  is  just  as  important  as  the  stuff  itself  that 
you  want  to  sell.  Next  morning — it  was  Sunday — I  went 
round  to  my  friend's  lodgings,  and  " — he  slapped  his  thigh 
— "  I'm  blest  if  the  chap  hadn't  cut  his  throat ! " 

"Why?" 

"  Betting  and  forgery.  He  would  have  been  arrested 
next  day.  But  the  worst  of  it  was  that  his  beverage  per- 
ished with  him.  I  hadn't  a  notion  how  it  was  made ;  he 
wouldn't  tell  me  till  I  planked  down  money  to  start  with  ; 
and  not  a  drop  of  it  could  be  found  anywhere.  And  to 
think  that  he  had  absolutely  struck  oil,  as  they  say  ;  had 
nothing  to  do  but  sit  down  and  count  the  money  as  it  came 
in !  That's  the  third  man  I've  known  go  wrong  in  less 
than  a  year.  Betting  and  embezzlement ;  betting  and  bur- 
glary ;  betting  and  forgery.  I'll  tell  you  some  time  about 
the  chap  who  went  in  for  burglary.  One  of  the  best  fel- 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  59 

lows  I  ever  knew ;  when  he  comes  out,  I  must  give  him  a 
hand.  But  ten  to  one  he'll  burgle  again  ;  they  always  do ; 
burglary  grows  on  a  man,  like  drink." 

His  laughter  rang  across  the  street ;  Barmby,  who  kept 
looking  back,  surprised  and  indignant  that  this  acquaint- 
ance of  Miss  Lord's  was  not  presented  to  him,  paused  for 
a  moment,  but  Nancy  waved  to  him  commandingly, 
"  Straight  on  ! " 

They  reached  Charing  Cross.  Horace,  who  took  no 
part  in  the  conversation,  and  had  dropped  behind,  at  this 
point  found  an.  opportunity  of  stealing  away.  It  was 
Crewe  who  first  remarked  his  absence. 

"  Hollo  !  where's  your  brother  ? " 

"  Gone,  evidently. — Hush !  Don't  say  anything.  Will 
you  do  something  for  me,  Mr.  Crewe  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  will.    What  is  it  ? " 

Nancy  pursued  in  a  low  voice. 

"  He's  gone  to  meet  Fanny  French.  At  least  he  told 
me  so ;  but  I  want  to  know  whether  it  is  really  Fanny,  or 
some  one  else.  He  said  they  were  to  meet  in  front  of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre.  Will  you  go  as  quickly  as  you  can, 
and  see  if  Fanny  is  there  ? " 

Crewe  laughed. 

"  Like  a  bird  ! — But  how  am  I  to  meet  you  again  ? " 

"  We'll  be  at  the  top  of  Regent  Street  at  nine  o'clock, — 
by  Peter  Robinson's.  Don't  lose  time." 

He  struck  off  in  the  westerly  direction,  and  Barmby, 
looking  round  at  that  moment,  saw  him  go.  Engrossed  in 
thought  of  Nancy,  Samuel  did  not  yet  perceive  that  her 
brother  had  vanished. 

"  Your  friend  isn't  coming  any  further  ? "  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  forbearance. 

"  No." 

"  But  where's  Mr.  Lord  ? "  exclaimed  Jessica. 

Nancy  pretended  to  look  back  for  him,  and  for  a  minute 
or  two  they  waited.  Barmby,  glad  to  be  delivered  from 
both  male  companions,  made  light  of  the  matter ;  Horace 
could  take  care  of  himself ;  they  had  the  appointment  for 


60  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

a  quarter  to  eleven ; — on !  And  lie  now  fixed  himself  reso- 
lutely at  Nancy's  side. 

She,  delighted  with  the  success  of  her  stratagem,  and 
careless  of  what  might  result  from  it,  behaved  more  com- 
paiiionably.  To  Luckworth  Crewe's  society  she  had  no 
objection ;  indeed,  she  rather  liked  him  ;  but  his  presence 
would  have  hindered  the  escape  for  which  she  was  prepar- 
ing. Poor  Jessica  might  feel  it  something  of  a  hardship 
to  pass  hours  alone  with  "  the  Prophet,"  but  that  could  not 
be  helped.  Nancy  would  be  free  to-night,  if  never  again. 

They  turned  into  the  Strand,  and  Barmby  voiced  his 
opinion  of  the  public  decorations. 

"  There's  very  little  of  what  can  be  called  Art — very 
little  indeed.  I'm  afraid  we  haven't  made  much  progress 
in  Art. — Now  what  would  Ruskin  say  to  this  kind  of 
thing  ?  The  popular  taste  wants  educating.  My  idea  is 
that  we  ought  to  get  a  few  leading  men — Buriie  Jones  and 
— and  William  Morris — and  people  of  that  kind,  you 
know,  Miss  Lord, — to  give  lectures  in  a  big  hall  on  the 
elements  of  Art.  A  great  deal  might  be  done  in  that  way, 
don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Morgan  ? " 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  anything  popular,"  Jessica  replied 
loftily. 

"  No,  no.  But,  after  all,  the  people  have  got  the  upper 
hand  now-a-days,  and  we  who  enjoy  advantages  of  educa- 
tion, of  culture,  ought  not  to  allow  them  to  remain  in  dark- 
ness. It  isn't  for  our  own  interest,  most  decidedly  it  isn't." 

"  Did  your  sisters  go  to  see  the  procession  ? "  Nancy 
asked. 

"  Oh,  they  were  afraid  of  the  crowd.  The  old  gentle- 
man took  them  out  to  Tooting  Common  this  afternoon, 
and  they  enjoyed  themselves.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
been  wiser  if  I  had  imitated  their  example ;  I  mean  this 
morning ;  of  course  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  evening 
for  anything  whatever.  But  somehow,  one  feels  it  a  sort  of 
duty  to  see  something  of  these  great  public  holidays.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  procession.  In  its  way  it  was  im- 
posing— yes,  really.  After  all,  the  Monarchy  is  a  great 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  61 

fact — as  Gurty  would  have  said.  I  like  to  keep  my  mind 
open  to  facts." 

The  sun  had  set,  and  with  approach  of  dusk  the  crowds 
grew  denser.  Nancy  proposed  a  return  westwards ;  the 
clubs  of  Pall  Mall  and  of  St.  James's  Street  would  make 
a  display  well  worth  seeing,  and  they  must  not  miss  Picca- 
dilly. 

u  A  little  later,"  said  their  escort,  with  an  air  of  liber- 
ality, uwe  must  think  of  some  light  refreshment.  We 
shall  be  passing  a  respectable  restaurant,  no  doubt." 

Twilight  began  to  obscure  the  distance.  Here  and 
there  a  house-front  slowly  marked  itself  with  points  of 
flame,  shaping  to  wreath,  festoon,  or  initials  of  Royalty. 
Nancy  looked  eagerly  about  her,  impatient  for  the  dark, 
wishing  the  throng  would  sweep  her  away.  In  Pall  Mall, 
Barmby  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  name  the  several 
clubs,  a  task  for  which  he  was  inadequately  prepared.  As 
he  stood  staring  in  doubt  at  one  of  the  coldly  insolent 
facades,  Jessica  gazing  in  the  same  direction,  Nancy  saw 
that  her  moment  had  come.  She  darted  off,  struggled 
through  a  moving  crowd,  and  reached  the  opposite  pave- 
ment. All  she  had  now  to  do  was  to  press  onward  with 
the  people  around  her ;  save  by  chance,  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  discovered. 

Alarm  at  her  daring  troubled  her  for  a  few  minutes. 
As  a  matter  of  course  Barmby  would  report  this  incident 
to  her  father, — unless  she  plainly  asked  him  not  to  do  so, 
for  which  she  had  no  mind.  Yet  what  did  it  matter  ?  She 
had  escaped  to  enjoy  herself,  and  the  sense  of  freedom 
soon  overcame  anxieties.  No  one  observed  her  solitary 
state ;  she  was  one  of  millions  walking  about  the  streets 
because  it  was  Jubilee  Day,  and  every  moment  packed 
her  more  tightly  among  the  tramping  populace.  A  pro- 
cession this,  greatly  more  significant  than  that  of  Royal 
personages  earlier  in  the  day.  Along  the  main  thorough- 
fares of  mid-London,  wheel-traffic  was  now  suspended; 
between  the  houses  moved  a  double  current  of  humanity, 
this  way  and  that,  filling  the  whole  space,  so  that  110  ve- 
5 


62  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

hicle  could  possibly  have  made  its  way  on  the  wonted 
track.  At  junctions,  pickets  of  police  directed  progress ; 
the  slowly  advancing  masses  wheeled  to  left  or  right  at 
word  of  command,  carelessly  obedient.  But  for  an  occa- 
sional bellow  of  hilarious  blackguardism,  or  for  a  song  up- 
lifted by  strident  voices,  or  a  cheer  at  some  flaring  symbol 
that  pleased  the  passers,  there  was  little  noise ;  only  a 
thud,  thud,  of  footfalls  numberless,  and  the  low,  unvary- 
ing sound  that  suggested  some  huge  beast  purring  to  itself 
in  stupid  contentment. 

Nancy  forgot  her  identity,  lost  sight  of  herself  as  an  in- 
dividual. She  did  not  think,  and  her  emotions  differed 
little  from  those  of  any  shop-girl  let  loose.  The  "  culture," 
to  which  she  laid  claim,  evanesced  in  this  atmosphere  of 
exhalations.  Could  she  have  seen  her  face,  its  look  of 
vulgar  abandonment  would  have  horrified  her. 

Some  one  trod  violently  on  her  heel,  and  she  turned 
with  a  half -angry  laugh,  protesting.  "  Beg  your  pardon, 
miss,"  said  a  young  fellow  of  the  clerkly  order.  "A  push 
be'ind  made  me  do.  it."  He  thrust  himself  to  a  place  beside 
her,  and  Nancy  conversed  with  him  unrestrainedly,  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  of  course.  The  young  man,  scru- 
tinising her  with  much  freedom,  shaped  clerkly  compli- 
ments, and,  in  his  fashion,  grew  lyrical ;  until,  at  a  certain 
remark  which  he  permitted  himself,  Nancy  felt  it  time  to 
shake  him  off.  Her  next  encounter  was  more  noteworthy. 
Of  a  sudden  she  felt  an  arm  round  her  waist,  and  a  man, 
whose  breath  declared  the  source  of  his  inspiration,  began 
singing  close  to  her  ear  the  operatic  ditty,  "  Queen  of  my 
Heart."  He  had,  moreover,  a  good  tenor  voice,  and  be- 
longed, vaguely,  to  some  stratum  of  educated  society. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  leave  me  alone,"  said  Nancy, 
looking  him  severely  in  the  face. 

"Well,  if  you  really  think  so," — beseemed  struck  by 
her  manner  of  speech, — "of  course  I  will:  but  I'd  much 
rather  not." 

"  I  might  find,  it  necessary  to  speak  to  a  policeman  at 
the  next  corner." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  63 

"  Oh,  in  that  case." — He  raised  his  hat,  and  fell  aside. 
And  Nancy  felt  that,  after  all,  the  adventure  had  been 
amusing. 

She  was  now  in  Regent  Street,  and  it  came  to  her  rec- 
ollection that  she  had  made  an  appointment  with  Luck- 
worth  Crewe  for  nine  o'clock.  Without  any  intention  of 
keeping  it ;  but  why  not  do  so  ?  Her  lively  acquaintance 
would  be  excellent  company  for  the  next  hour,  until  she 
chose  to  bring  the  escapade  to  an  end.  And  indeed,  save 
by  a  disagreeable  struggle,  she  could  hardly  change  the 
direction  of  her  steps.  It  was  probably  past  nine  ;  Crewe 
might  have  got  tired  of  waiting,  or  have  found  it  impos- 
sible to  keep  a  position  on  the  pavement.  Drawing  near 
to  the  top,  of  Regent  Street,  she  hoped  he  might  be  there. 
And  there  he  was,  jovially  perspiring ;  he  saw  her  between 
crowded  heads,  and  crushed  through  to  her  side. 


VIII 

"  WHERE  are  your  friends  ? " 

"  That's  more  than  I  can  tell  you." 

They  laughed  together. 

"  It's  a  miracle  we've  been  able  to  meet,"  said  Crewe. 
"  I  had  to  thrash  a  fellow  five  minutes  ago,  and  was  pre- 
cious near  getting  run  in.  Shall  we  go  the  Tottenham 
Court  Road  way  ?  Look  out !  You'd  better  hold  011  to 
my  arm.  These  big  crossings  are  like  whirlpools;  you 
might  go  round  and  round,  and  never  get  anywhere. 
Don't  be  afraid  ;  if  any  one  runs  up  against  you,  I'll  knock 
him  down." 

"  There  wouldn't  be  room  for  him  to  fall,"  said  Nancy, 
wild  with  merriment,  as  they  swayed  amid  the  uproar. 
For  the  first  time  she  understood  how  perilous  such  a 
crowd  might  be.  A  band  of  roisterers,  linked  arm  in  arm, 
were  trying  to  break  up  the  orderly  march  of  thousands 
into  a  chaotic  fight.  The  point  for  which  Crewe  made 
was  unattainable;  just  in  front  of  him  a  woman  began 


6±  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

shrieking  hysterically  ;  another  fainted,  and  dropped  into 
her  neighbour's  arms. 

"  Don't  get  frightened  ! " 

"  Not  I !  I  like  it.     It's  good  fun." 

"You're  the  right  sort,  you  are.  But  we  must  get 
out  of  this.  It's  worse  than  the  pit-door  on  the  first 
night  of  a  pantomime.  I  must  hold  you  up;  don't 
mind." 

His  arm  encircled  her  body,  and  for  a  moment  now 
and  then  he  carried  rather  than  led  her.  They  were  safe 
at  length,  in  the  right  part  of  Oxford  Street,  and  moving 
with  the  stream. 

"  I  couldn't  find  your  brother,"  Ore  we  had  leisure  to 
say;  "and  I  didn't  see  Fanny  French.  There  weren't 
many  people  about  just  then,  either.  They  must  have 
gone  off  before  I  came." 

"  Yes,  they  must.     It  doesn't  matter." 

"  You  have  some  life  in  you."  He  gazed  at  her  admir- 
ingly. "You're  worth  half  a  million  of  the  girls  that 
squeak  and  wobble  when  there's  a  bit  of  rough  play  go- 
ing on." 

"I  hope  so.  Did  you  set  me  down  a£  one  of  that 
kind?" 

Nancy  found  that  her  tongue  had  achieved  a  liberty 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  She  spoke  without  forethought, 
and  found  pleasure  in  her  boldness. 

"  Not  I,"  Crewe  answered.  "  But  I  never  had  a  chance 
before  now  of  telling  you  what  I  thought." 

Some  one  in  front  of  them  ignited  a  Bengal  light  and 
threw  it  into  the  air;  the  flame  flashed  across  Nancy's 
features,  and  fell  upon  the  hat  of  a  man  near  her. 

"  How  do  you  mean  to  get  home  ? "  asked  Crewe  pres- 
ently. 

Nancy  explained  that  all  her  party  were  to  meet  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river. 

"Oh,  then,  there's  plenty  of  time.  When  you've 
had  enough  of  this  kind  of  thing  we  can  strike  off 
into  the  quiet  streets.  If  you  were  a  man,  which  I'm 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  65 

glad  you're  not,  I  should  say  I  was  choking  for  a  glass 
of  beer." 

"  Say  it,  and  look  for  a  place  where  you  can  quench 
your  thirst." 

"  It  must  be  a  place,  then,  where  you  can  come  in  as 
well.  You  don't  drink  beer,  of  course,  but  we  can  get 
lemonade  and  that  kind  of  thing.  No  wonder  we  get 
thirsty  ;  look  up  there." 

Following  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  Nancy  saw  above 
the  heads  of  the  multitude  a  waving  dust-canopy,  sent  up 
by  myriad  tramplings  on  the  sun-scorched  streets.  Glare 
of  gas  illumined  it  in  the  foreground ;  beyond,  it  dimmed 
all  radiance  like  a  thin  fog. 

"We  might  cut  across  through  Soho,"  he  pursued, 
"and  get  among  the  restaurants.  Take  my  arm  again. 
Only  a  bit  of  cross-fighting,  and  we  shall  be  in  the  crowd 
going  the  other  way.  Did  you  do  physics  at  school  ?  Re- 
member about  the  resultant  of  forces  ?  Now  we're  a  force 
tending  to  the  right,  and  the  crowd  is  a  force  making  for 
straight  on ;  to  find  the " 

His  hat  was  knocked  over  his  eyes,  and  the  statement 
of  the  problem  ended  in  laughter. 

With  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  they  reached  one  of  the 
southward  byways ;  and  thenceforth  walking  was  unim- 
peded. 

"  You  know  that  I  call  myself  Luckworth  Crewe,"  re- 
sumed Nancy's  companion  after  a  short  silence. 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  I've  no  right  to  either  of  the  names. 
I  thought  I'd  just  tell  you,  for  the  fun  of  the  thing;  I 
shouldn't  talk  about  it  to  any  one  else  that  I  know.  They 
tell  me  I  was  picked  up  011  a  door-step  in  Leeds,  and  the 
wife  of  a  mill-hand  adopted  me.  Their  name  was  Crewe. 
They  called  me  Tom,  but  somehow  it  isn't  a  name  I  care 
for,  and  when  I  was  grown  up  I  met  a  man  called  Luck- 
worth,  who  was  as  kind  as  a  father  to  me,  and  so  I  took 
his  name  in  place  of  Tom.  That's  the  long  and  short 
of  it." 


66  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Nancy  looked  a  trifle  disconcerted. 

"  You  won't  think  any  worse  of  me,  because  I  haven't 
a  name  of  my  own  ? " 

"  Why  should  I  ?    It  isn't  your  fault." 

"  No.  But  I'm  not  the  kind  of  a  man  to  knuckle  under. 
I  think  myself  just  as  good  as  anybody  else.  I'll  knock 
the  man  down  that  sneers  at  me ;  and  I  won't  thank  any- 
body for  pitying  me ;  that's  the  sort  of  chap  I  am.  And 
I'm  going  to  have  a  big  fortune  one  of  these  days.  It's 
down  in  the  books.  I  know  I  shall  live  to  be  a  rich  man, 
just  as  well  as  I  know  that  I'm  walking  down  Dean  Street 
with  Miss  Lord." 

"  I  should  think  it  very  possible,"  his  companion  re- 
marked. 

"  It  hasn't  begun  yet.  I  can  only  lay  my  hand  on  a 
few  hundred  pounds,  one  way  and  another.  And  I'm 
turned  thirty.  But  the  next  ten  years  are  going  to  do  it. 
Do  you  know  what  I  did  last  Saturday  ?  I  got  fifteen 
hundred  pounds'  worth  of  advertising  for  our  people,  from 
a  chap  that's  never  yet  put  a  penny  into  the  hands  of  an 
agent.  I  went  down  and  talked  to  him  like  a  father.  He 
was  the  hardest  nut  I  ever  had  to  crack,  but  in  thirty -five 
minutes  I'd  got  him — like  a  roach  on  a  hook.  And  it'll 
be  to  his  advantage,  mind  you.  That  fifteen  hundred  '11 
bring  him  in  more  business  than  he's  had  for  ten  years 
past.  I  got  him  to  confess  he  was  going  down  the  hill. 
'  Of  course,'  I  said,  '  because  you  don't  know  how  to  ad- 
vertise, and  won't  let  anybody  else  know  for  you  ? '  In  a 
few  minutes  he  was  telling  me  he'd  dropped  more  than  a 
thousand  on  a  patent  that  was  out  of  date  before  it  got 
fairly  going.  'All  right,'  said  I.  '  Here's  your  new  cook- 
ing-stove. You've  dropped  a  thousand  on  the  other  thing ; 
give  your  advertising  to  us,  and  I'll  guarantee  you  shall 
come  home  on  the  cooking-stove.' " 

"  Come  home  on  it  ? "  Nancy  inquired,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  it's  our  way  of  talking,"  said  the  other,  with  his 
hearty  laugh.  "It  means  to  make  up  one's  loss.  And 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  £7 

he'll  do  it.    And  when  he  has,  he'll  think  no  end  of 
me." 

"  I  daresay." 

"  Not  long  ago,  I  boxed  a  chap  for  his  advertising.  A 
fair  turn-up  with  the  gloves.  Do  you  suppose  I  licked 
him  ?  Not  I ;  though  I  could  have  done  it  with  one  hand. 
I  just  let  him  knock  me  out  of  time,  and  two  minutes  after 
he  put  all  his  business  into  my  hands." 

"  Oh,  you'll  get  rich,"  declared  Nancy,  laughing.  "  No 
doubt  about  it." 

"  There  was  a  spot  down  the  South  Western  Railway 
where  we  wanted  to  stick  up  a  board,  a  great  big  board,  as 
ugly  as  they  make  'em.  It  was  in  a  man's  garden  ;  a  cer- 
tain particular  place,  where  the  trains  slow,  and  folks  have 
time  to  read  the  advertisement  and  meditate  on  it.  That 
chap  wouldn't  listen.  What !  spoil  his  garden  with  our 
da —  with  our  confounded  board  !  not  for  five  hundred  a 
year !  Well,  I  went  down,  and  I  talked  to  him ' 

"  Like  a  father,"  put  in  Nancy. 

"  Just  so,  like  a  father.  '  Look  here,'  said  I,  '  my  dear 
sir,  you're  impeding  the  progress  of  civilisation.  How 
could  we  have  become  what  we  are  without  the  modern 
science  and  art  of  advertising  ?  Till  advertising  sprang 
up,  the  world  was  barbarous.  Do  you  suppose  people  kept 
themselves  clean  before  they  were  reminded  at  every  corner 
of  the  benefits  of  soap  ?  Do  you  suppose  they  were  healthy 
before  every  wall  and  hoarding  told  them  what  medicine 
to  take  for  their  ailments  ?  Not  they  indeed !  Why,  a 
man  like  you— an  enlightened  man,  I  see  it  in  your  face 
(he  was  as  ugly  as  Ben's  bull-dog),  ought  to  be  proud  of 
helping  on  the  age.'  And  I  made  him  downright  ashamed 
of  himself.  He  asked  me  to  have  a  bit  of  dinner,  and  we 
came  to  terms  over  the  cheese." 

In  this  strain  did  Luckworth  Crewe  continue  to  talk 
across  the  gloomy  solitudes  of  Soho.  And  Nancy  would 
on  no  account  have  had  him  cease.  She  was  fascinated 
by  his  rough  vigour  and  by  his  visions  of  golden  pros- 
perity. It  seemed  to  her  that  they  reached  very  quickly 


68  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  restaurant  he  had  in  view.  With  keen  enjoyment  of 
the  novelty,  she  followed  him  between  tables  where  people 
were  eating,  drinking-,  smoking,  and  took  a  place  beside 
him  on  a  cushioned  seat  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"  I  know  you're  tired,"  he  said.  "  There's  nearly  half- 
an-hour  before  you  need  move." 

Nancy  hesitated  in  her  choice  of  a  refreshment.  She 
wished  to  have  something  unusual,  something  that  fitted 
an  occasion  so  remarkable,  yet,  as  Crewe  would  of  course 
pay,  she  did  not  like  to  propose  anything  expensive. 

"  Now  let  me  choose  for  you,"  her  companion  requested. 
"After  all  that  rough  work,  you  want  something  more 
than  a  drop  of  lemonade.  I'm  going  to  order  a  nice  little 
bottle  of  champagne  out  of  the  ice,  and  a  pretty  little  sand- 
wich made  of  whatever  you  like." 

"Champagne ?" 

It  had  been  in  her  thoughts,  a  sparkling  audacity. 
Good  ;  champagne  let  it  be.  And  she  leaned  back  in  de- 
fiant satisfaction. 

"I  didn't  expect  much  from  Jubilee  Day,"  observed 
the  man  of  business,  "but  that  only  shows  how  things 
turn  out — always  better  or  worse  than  you  think  for.  I'm 
not  likely  to  forget  it ;  it's  the  best  day  I've  had  in  my 
life  yet,  and  I  leave  you  to  guess  who  I  owe  that  to." 

"  I  think  this  is  good  wine,"  remarked  Nancy,  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  him. 

"  Not  bad.  You  wouldn't  suppose  a  fellow  of  my  sort 
would  know  anything  about  it.  But  I  do.  I've  drunk 
plenty  of  good  champagne,  and  I  shall  drink  better." 

Nancy  ate  her  sandwich  and  smiled.  The  one  glass 
sufficed  her ;  Crewe  drank  three.  Presently,  looking  at 
her  with  his  head  propped  on  his  hand,  he  said  gravely : 

"  I  wonder  whether  this  is  the  last  walk  we  shall  have 
together  ? " 

"  Who  can  say  ? "  she  answered  in  a  light  tone. 

"  Some  one  ought  to  be  able  to  say." 

"I  never  make  prophecies,  and  never  believo  other 
people's." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  69 

"Shows  your  good  sense.  But  /  make  wishes,  and 
plenty  of  them." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Nancy. 

"Then  let  us  both  make  a  wish  to  ourselves,"  proposed 
Crewe,  regarding  her  with  eyes  that  had  an  uncommon 
light  in  them. 

His  companion  laughed,  then  both  were  quiet  for  a 
moment. 

They  allowed  themselves  plenty  of  time  to  battle  their 
way  as  far  as  Westminster  Bridge.  At  one  point  police 
and  crowd  were  in  brief  conflict ;  the  burly  guardians  of 
order  dealt  thwacking  blows,  right  and  left,  sound  fisti- 
cuffs, backed  with  hearty  oaths.  The  night  was  young ; 
by  magisterial  providence,  hours  of  steady  drinking  lay 
before  the  hardier  jubilants.  Thwacks  and  curses  would 
be  no  rarity  in  another  hour  or  two. 

At  the  foot  of  Parliament  Street,  Nancy  came  face  to 
face  with  Samuel  Barmby,  on  whose  arm  hung  the 
wearied  Jessica.  Without  heeding  their  exclamations, 
she  turned  to  her  protector  and  bade  him  a  hearty  good- 
night. Crewe  accepted  his  dismissal.  He  made  survey  of 
Barmby,  arid  moved  off  singing  to  himself,  "  Do  not  for- 
get me — do  not  forget  me — 


PART  SECOND— NATURE'S   GRADUATE. 


THE  disorder  which  Stephen  Lord  masked  as  a  "  touch 
of  gout "  had  in  truth  a  much  more  disagreeable  name. 
It  was  now  twelve  months  since  his  doctor's  first  warning, 
directed  against  the  savoury  meats  and  ardent  beverages 
which  constituted  his  diet;  Stephen  resolved  upon  a 
change  of  habits,  but  the  flesh  held  him  in  bondage,  and 
medical  prophecy  was  justified  by  the  event.  All  through 
Jubilee  Day  he  suffered  acutely ;  for  the  rest  of  the  week 
he  remained  at  home,  sometimes  sitting  in  the  garden,  but 
generally  keeping  his  room,  where  he  lay  on  a  couch. 

A  man  of  method  and  routine,  sedentary,  with  a  strong 
dislike  of  unfamiliar  surroundings,  he  could  not  be  per- 
suaded to  try  change  of  air.  The  disease  intensified  his  native 
stubbornness,  made  him  by  turns  fretful  and  furious,  dis- 
posed him  to  a  sullen  solitude.  He  would  accept  no  tend- 
ance but  that  of  Mary  Woodruff ;  to  her,  as  to  his  children, 
he  kept  up  the  pretence  of  gout.  He  was  visited  only  by 
Samuel  Barmby,  with  whom  he  discussed  details  of  busi- 
ness, and  by  Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  his  friend  of  thirty  years, 
the  one  man  to  whom  he  unbosomed  himself. 

His  effort  to  follow  the  regimen  medically  prescribed 
to  him  was  even  now  futile.  At  the  end  of  a  week's  time, 
imagining  himself  somewhat  better,  he  resumed  his  daily 
walk  to  Camberwell  Road,  but  remained  at  the  warehouse 
only  till  two  or  three  o'clock,  then  returned  and  sat  alone 
in  his  room.  On  one  of  the  first  days  of  July,  when  the 
weather  was  oppressively  hot,  he  entered  the  house  about 

70 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  71 

noon,  and  in  a  few  minutes  rang  his  bell.  Mary  Wood- 
ruff came  to  him.  He  was  sitting  on  the  couch,  pale,  wet 
with  perspiration,  and  exhausted. 

"  I  want  something  to  drink,"  he  said  wearily,  without 
raising  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  have  the  lime-water,  sir  ? " 

"  Yes— what  you  like." 

Mary  brought  it  to  him,  and  he  drank  two  large  glasses, 
with  no  pause. 

"  Where  is  Nancy  ? " 

"  In  town,  sir.  She  said  she  would  be  back  about 
four." 

He  made  an  angry  movement. 

u  What's  she  doing  in  town  ?  She  said  nothing  to  me. 
Why  doesn't  she  come  back  to  lunch  ?  Where  does  she 
go  to  for  all  these  hours  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

The  servant  spoke  in  a  low,  respectful  voice,  looking 
at  her  master  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  compassionate 
him. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter."  He  waved  a  hand,  as  if  in 
dismissal.  "Wait— if  I'm  to  be  alone,  I  might  as  well 
have  lunch  now.  I  feel  hungry,  as  if  I  hadn't  eaten  any- 
thing for  twenty-four  hours.  Get  me  something,  Mary." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  his  bell  again  sounded,  and 
Mary  answered  it.  As  he  did  not  speak  at  once, — he  was 
standing  by  the  window  with  his  hands  behind  him, — she 
asked  him  his  pleasure. 

"  Bring  me  some  water,  Mary,  plain  drinking-water." 

She  returned  with  a  jug  and  glass,  and  he  took  a  long 
draught. 

uNo,  don't  go  yet.  I  want  to— to  talk  to  you  about 
things.  Set  down  there  for  a  minute." 

He  pointed  to  the  couch,  and  Mary,  with  an  anxious 
look,  obeyed  him. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  leaving  this  house,  and  going  to  live 
in  the  country.  There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't.  My 
partner  can  look  after  the  business  well  enough." 


72  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  It  might  be  the  best  thing  you  could  do,  sir.  The  best 
for  your  health." 

"  Yes,  it  might.  I'm  not  satisfied  with  things.  I  want 
to  make  a  decided  change,  in  every  way." 

His  face  had  grown  more  haggard  during  the  last  few 
days,  and  his  eyes  wandered,  expressing  fretfuliiess  or 
fear ;  he  spoke  with  effort,  and  seemed  unable  to  find  the 
words  that  would  convey  his  meaning. 

"Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  plainly,  what  do  you 
think  of  Nancy  ? " 

"Think  of  her,  sir?" 

"  No,  no — don't  speak  in  that  way.  I  don't  want  you 
to  call  me  '  sir ' ;  it  isn't  necessary ;  we've  known  each 
other  so  long,  and  I  think  of  you  as  a  friend,  a  very  good 
friend.  Think  of  me  in  the  same  way,  and  speak  natu- 
rally. I  want  to  know  your  opinion  of  Nancy." 

The  listener  had  a  face  of  grave  attention :  it  signified 
no  surprise,  no  vulgar  self -consciousness,  but  perhaps  a  just 
perceptible  pleasure.  And  in  replying  she  looked  steadily 
at  her  master  for  a  moment. 

"I  really  don't  feel  I  can  judge  her,  Mr.  Lord.  It's 
true,  in  a  way,  I  ought  to  know  her  very  well,  as  I've  seen 
her  day  by  day  since  she  was  a  little  thing.  But  now  she's 
a  well-educated  and  clever  young  lady,  and  she  has  got 
far  beyond  me " 

"  Ay,  there  it  is,  there  it  is ! "  Stephen  interrupted  with 
bitterness.  "  She's  got  beyond  us — beyond  me  as  well  as 
you.  And  she  isn't  what  I  meant  her  to  be,  very  far  from 
it.  I  haven't  brought  them  up  as  I  wished.  I  don't  know 
— I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why.  It  was  in  my  own  hands. 
When  they  were  little  children,  I  said  to  myself :  They 
shall  grow  up  plain,  good,  honest  girl  and  boy.  I  said 
that  I  wouldn't  educate  them  very  much ;  I  saw  little 
good  that  came  of  it,  in  our  rank  of  life.  I  meant  them  to 
be  simple-minded.  I  hoped  Nancy  would  marry  a  plain 
countryman,  like  the  men  I  used  to  know  when  I  was  a 
boy ;  a  farmer,  or  something  of  that  kind.  But  see  how 
it's  come  about.  It  wasn't  that  I  altered  my  mind  about 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  Y3 

what  was  best.  But  I  seemed  to  have  no  choice.  For  one 
thing,  I  made  more  money  at  business  than  I  had  expected, 
and  so — and  so  it  seemed  that  they  ought  to  be  educated 
above  me  and  mine.  There  was  my  mother,  did  a  better 
woman  ever  live  ?  She  had  no  education  but  that  of 
home.  She  could  have  brought  up  Nancy  in  the  good, 
old-fashioned  way,  if  I  had  let  her.  I  wish  I  had,  yes,  I 
wish  I  had." 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  have  felt  satisfied,"  said  the 
listener,  with  intelligent  sympathy. 

"  Why  not  ?  If  she  had  been  as  good  and  useful  a 
woman  as  you  are — 

"  Ah,  you  mustn't  think  in  that  way,  Mr.  Lord.  I  was 
born  and  bred  to  service.  Your  daughter  had  a  mind 
given  her  at  her  birth,  that  would  never  have  been  con- 
tent with  humble  things.  She  was  meant  for  education 
and  a  higher  place." 

"  What  higher  place  is  there  for  her  ?  She  thinks 
herself  too  good  for  the  life  she  leads  here,  and  yet  I 
don't  believe  she'll  ever  find  a  place  among  people  of 
a  higher  class.  She  has  told  me  herself  it's  my  fault. 
She  says  I  ought  to  have  had  a  big  house  for  her,  so 
that  she  might  make  friends  among  the  rich.  Perhaps 
she's  right.  I  have  made  her  neither  one  thing  nor 
another.  Mary,  if  I  had  never  come  to  London,  I  might 
have  lived  happily.  My  place  was  away  there,  in  the  old 
home.  I've  known  that  for  many  a  year.  I've  thought : 
wait  till  I've  made  a  little  more  money,  and  I'll  go  back. 
But  it  was  never  done ;  and  now  it  looks  to  me  as  if  I  had 
spoilt  the  lives  of  my  children,  as  well  as  my  own.  I 
can't  trust  Nancy,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  You  don't  know 
what  she  did  on  Jubilee  night.  She  wasn't  with  Mr. 
Barmby  and  the  others — Barmby  told  me  about  it;  she 
pretended  to  lose  them,  and  went  off  somewhere  to  meet  a 
man  she's  never  spoke  to  me  about.  Is  that  how  a  good 
girl  would  act  ?  I  didn't  speak  to  her  about  it ;  what  use  ? 
Very  likely  she  wouldn't  tell  me  the  truth.  She  takes  it 
for  granted  I  can't  understand  her.  She  thinks  her  edu- 


71  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

cation  puts  her  above  all  plain  folk  and  their  ways — 
that's  it." 

Mary's  eyes  had  fallen,  and  she  kept  silence. 

"Suppose  anything  happened  to  me,  and  they  were 
left  to  themselves.  I  have  money  to  leave  between  them, 
and  of  course  they  know  it.  How  could  it  do  them  any- 
thing but  harm  ?  Do  you  know  that  Horace  wants  to 
marry  that  girl  Fanny  French — a  grinning,  chattering 
fool — if  not  worse.  He  has  told  me  he  shall  do  as  he 
likes.  Whether  or  no  it  was  right  to  educate  Nancy,  I  am 
very  sure  that  I  ought  to  have  done  with  him  as  I  meant 
at  first.  He  hasn't  the  brains  to  take  a  good  position. 
When  his  schooling  went  on  year  after  year,  I  thought  at 
last  to  make  of  him  something  better  than  his  father — a 
doctor,  or  a  lawyer.  But  he  hadn't  the  brains :  he  disap- 
pointed me  bitterly.  And  what  use  can  he  make  of  my 
money,  when  I'm  in  my  grave  ?  If  I  die  soon  he'll  marry, 
and  ruin  his  life.  And  won't  it  be  the  same  with  Nancy  ? 
Some  plotting,  greedy  fellow — the  kind  of  man  you  see 
everywhere  now-a-days,  will  fool  her  for  the  money's 
sake." 

"  We  must  hope  they'll  be  much  older  and  wiser  before 
they  have  to  act  for  themselves,"  said  Mary,  looking  into 
her  master's  troubled  face. 

"  Yes  ! "  He  came  nearer  to  her,  with  a  sudden  hope- 
fulness. "  And  whether  I  live  much  longer  or  not,  I  can 
do  something  to  guard  them  against  their  folly.  They 
needn't  have  the  money  as  soon  as  I  am  gone." 

He  seated  himself  in  front  of  his  companion. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,  Mary.  If  they  were 
left  alone,  would  you  be  willing  to  live  here  still,  as  you 
do  now,  for  a  few  more  years  ? " 

"  I  shall  do  whatever  you  wish — whatever  you  bid  me, 
Mr.  Lord,"  answered  the  woman,  in  a  voice  of  heartfelt 
loyalty. 

"  You  would  stay  on,  and  keep  house  for  them  ? " 

"  But  would  they  go  on  living  here  ? " 

"  I  could  make  them  do  so.     I  could  put  it  down  as  a 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  75 

condition  in  my  will.  At  all  events,  I  would  make  Nancy 
stay.  Horace  might  live  where  he  liked — though  not  with 
money  to  throw  about.  They  have  no  relatives  that  could 
be  of  any  use  to  them.  I  should  wish  Nancy  to  go  on 
living  here,  and  you  with  her ;  and  she  would  only  have 
just  a  sufficient  income,  paid  by  my  old  friend  Barmby,  or 
by  his  son.  And  that  till  she  was — what  ?  I  have  thought 
of  six-and-twenty.  By  that  time  she  would  either  have 
learnt  wisdom,  or  she  never  would.  She  must  be  free 
sooner  or  later." 

"  But  she  couldn't  live  by  herself,  Mr.  Lord." 

"  You  tell  me  you  would  stay,"  he  exclaimed  impul- 
sively. 

"Oh,  but  I  am  only  her  servant.  That  wouldn't  be 
enough." 

"  It  would  be.  Your  position  shall  be  changed.  There's 
no  one  living  to  whom  I  could  trust  her  as  I  could  to  you. 
There's  no  woman  I  respect  so  much.  For  twenty  years 
you  have  proved  yourself  worthy  of  respect — and  it  shall 
be  paid  to  you." 

His  vehemence  would  brook  no  opposition. 

"  You  said  you  would  do  as  I  wished.  I  wish  you  to 
have  a  new  position  in  this  house.  You  shall  no  longer 
be  called  a  servant;  you  shall  be  our  housekeeper,  and 
our  friend.  I  will  have  it,  I  tell  you  ! "  he  cried  angrily. 
"  You  shall  sit  at  table  with  us,  and  live  with  us.  Nancy 
still  has  sense  enough  to  acknowledge  that  this  is  only 
your  just  reward;  from  her,  I  know,  there  won't  be  a 
word  of  objection.  What  can  you  have  to  say  against  it  ? " 

The  woman  was  pale  with  emotion.  Her  reserve  and 
sensibility  shrank  from  what  seemed  to  her  an  invidious 
honour,  yet  she  durst  not  irritate  the  sick  man  by  oppo- 
sition. 

"  It  will  make  Nancy  think,"  he  pursued,  with  emphasis. 
"  It  will  help  her,  perhaps,  to  see  the  difference  between 
worthless  women  who  put  themselves  forward,  and  the 
women  of  real  value  who  make  no  pretences.  Perhaps 
it  isn't  too  late  to  set  good  examples  before  her.  I've 


76  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

never  found  her  ill-natured,  though  she's  wilful ;  it  isn't 
her  heart  that's  wrong — I  hope  and  think  not — only  her 
mind,  that's  got  stuffed  with  foolish  ideas.  Since  her 
grandmother's  death  she's  had  no  guidance.  You  shall 
talk  to  her  as  a  woman  can;  not  all  at  once,  but  when 
she's  used  to  thinking  of  you  in  this  new  way." 

"  You  are  forgetting  her  friends,"  Mary  said  at  length, 
with  eyes  of  earnest  appeal. 

"  Her  friends  ?  She's  better  without  such  friends. 
There's  one  thing  I  used  to  hope,  but  I've  given  it  up.  I 
thought  once  that  she  might  have  come  to  a  liking  for 
Samuel  Barmby,  but  now  I  don't  think  she  ever  will,  and 
I  believe  it's  her  friends  that  are  to  blame  for  it.  One 
thing  I  know,  that  she'll  never  meet  with  any  one  who 
will  make  her  so  good  a  husband  as  he  would.  We  don't 
think  alike  in  every  way ;  he's  a  young  man,  and  has  the 
new  ideas ;  but  I've  known  him  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  I 
respect  his  character.  He  has  a  conscience,  which  is  no 
common  thing  now-a-days.  He  lives  a  clean,  homely  life 
— and  you  won't  find  many  of  his  age  who  do.  Nancy 
thinks  herself  a  thousand  times  too  good  for  him  ;  I  only 
hope  he  mayn't  prove  a  great  deal  too  good  for  her.  But 
I've  given  up  that  thought.  I've  never  spoken  to  her 
about  it,  and  I  never  shall ;  110  good  comes  of  forcing  a 
girl's  inclination.  I  only  tell  you  of  it,  Mary,  because  I 
want  you  to  understand  what  has  been  going  on." 

They  heard  a  bell  ring ;  that  of  the  front  door. 

"  It'll  be  Miss  Nancy,"  said  Mary,  rising. 

"  Go  to  the  door  then.  If  its  Nancy,  tell  her  I  want  to 
speak  to  her,  and  come  back  yourself." 

"  Mr.  Lord— 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you— at  once ! " 

All  the  latent  force  of  Stephen's  character  now  de- 
clared itself.  He  stood  upright,  his  face  stern  and  digni- 
fied. In  a  few  moments  Nancy  entered  the  room,  and 
Mary  followed  her  at  a  distance. 

"  Nancy,"  said  the  father,  UI  want  to  tell  you  of  a 
change  in  the  house.  You  know  that  Mary  has  been  with 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  77 

us  for  twenty  years.  You  know  that  for  a  long-  time  we 
haven't  thought  of  her  as  a  servant,  but  as  a  friend,  and 
one  of  the  best  possible.  It's  time  now  to  show  our  grati- 
tude. Mary  will  continue  to  help  us  as  before,  but  hence- 
forth she  is  one  of  our  family.  She  will  eat  with  us  and 
sit  with  us :  and  I  look  to  you,  my  girl,  to  make  the  change 
an  easy  and  pleasant  one  for  her." 

As  soon  as  she  understood  the  drift  of  her  father's 
speech,  Nancy  experienced  a  shock,  and  could  not  conceal 
it.  But  when  silence  came,  she  had  commanded  herself. 
An  instant's  pause ;  then,  with  her  brightest  smile,  she 
turned  to  Mary  and  spoke  in  a  voice  of  kindness. 

"  Father  is  quite  right.  Your  place  is  with  us.  I  am 
glad,  very  glad." 

Mary  looked  from  Mr.  Lord  to  his  daughter,  tried 
vainly  to  speak,  and  left  the  room. 


II 

His  father's  contemptuous  wrath  had  an  ill  effect  upon 
Horace.  Of  an  amiable  disposition,  and  without  independ- 
ence of  character,  he  might  have  been  guided  by  a  judi- 
cious parent  through  all  the  perils  of  his  calf-love  for 
Fanny  French  ;  thrown  upon  his  own  feeble  resources,  he 
regarded  himself  as  a  victim  of  the  traditional  struggle  be- 
tween prosaic  age  and  nobly  passionate  youth,  and  re- 
solved at  all  hazards  to  follow  the  heroic  course — which 
meant,  first  of  all,  a  cold  taciturnity  towards  his  father, 
and,  as  to  his  future  conduct,  a  total  disregard  of  the  domes- 
tic restraints  which  he  had  hitherto  accepted.  In  a  day  or 
two  he  sat  down  and  wrote  his  father  a  long  letter,  of 
small  merit  as  a  composition,  and  otherwise  illustrating 
the  profitless  nature  of  the  education  for  which  Stephen 
Lord  had  hopefully  paid.  It  began  with  a  declaration  of 
rights.  He  was  a  man ;  he  could  no  longer  submit  to 
childish  trammels.  A  man  must  not  be  put  to  inconven- 
ience by  the  necessity  of  coming  home  at  early  hours.  A 
6 


78  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

man  could  not  brook  cross-examination  on  the  subject  of 
his  intimacies,  his  expenditure,  and  so  forth.  Above  all,  a 
man  was  answerable  to  no  one  but  himself  for  his  relations 
with  the  other  sex,  for  the  sacred  hopes  he  cherished,  for 
his  emotions  and  aspirations  which  transcended  even  a 
man's  vocabulary. — With  much  more  of  like  tenor. 

To  this  epistle,  delivered  by  post,  Mr.  Lord  made  no 
answer. 

Horace  nattered  himself  that  he  had  gained  a  victory. 
There  was  nothing*  like  "firmness,"  and  that  evening-, 
about  nine,  he  went  to  De  Crespigny  Park.  As  usual,  he 
had  to  ring-  the  bell  two  or  three  times  before  any  one 
came ;  the  lively  notes  of  a  piano  sounded  from  the  draw- 
ing-room, intimating,  no  doubt,  that  Mrs.  Peachey  had 
guests.  The  door  at  length  opened,  and  he  bade  the  serv- 
ant let  Miss  Fanny  know  that  he  was  here ;  he  would  wait 
in  the  dining-room. 

It  was  not  yet  dark,  but  objects  could  only  just  be  dis- 
tinguished ;  the  gloom  supplied  Horace  with  a  suggestion 
at  which  he  laughed  to  himself.  He  had  laid  down  his 
hat  and  cane,  when  a  voice  surprised  him. 

"  Who's  that  ? "  asked  some  one  from  the  back  of  the 
room. 

"  Oh,  are  you  there,  Mr.  Peachey  ? — I've  come  to  see 
Fanny.  I  didn't  care  to  go  among  the  people." 

"  All  right.     We'd  better  light  the  gas." 

With  annoyance,  Horace  saw  the  master  of  the  house 
come  forward,  and  strike  a  match.  Remains  of  dinner 
were  still  on  the  table.  The  two  exchanged  glances. 

"  How  is  your  father  ? "  Peachey  inquired.  He  had  a 
dull,  depressed  look,  and  moved  languidly  to  draw  down 
the  blind. 

"  Oh,  he  isn't  quite  up  to  the  mark.  But  it's  nothing 
serious,  I  think." 

"  Miss  Lord  quite  well  ? — We  haven't  seen  much  of  her 
lately." 

"I  don't  know  why,  I'm  sure.— Nobody  can  depend 
upon  her  very  much." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  f9 

"Well,  I'll  leave  you,"  said  the  other,  with  a  dreary 
look  about  the  room.  "The  table  ought  to  have  been 
cleared  by  now — but  that's  nothing-  new." 

"Confounded  servants,"  muttered  Horace. 

"  Oh  yes,  the  servants,"  was  Peachey's  ironical  reply. 

As  soon  as  he  was  left  alone,  Horace  turned  out  the  gas. 
Then  he  stood  near  the  door,  trembling  with  amorous  an- 
ticipation. But  minutes  went  by ;  his  impatience  grew 
intolerable ;  he  stamped,  and  twisted  his  fingers  together. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  door  opened. 

"  Why,  its  dark,  there's  nobody  here." 

Fanny  discovered  her  mistake.  She  was  seized  and 
lifted  off  her  feet. 

"  Oh !  Do  you  want  to  eat  me  ?  I'll  hit  you  as  hard  as 
I  can,  I  will !  You're  spoiling  my  dress  ! " 

The  last  remonstrance  was  in  a  note  that  Horace  did 
not  venture  to  disregard. 

"  Strike  a  light,  silly !  I  know  you've  done  something 
to  my  dress." 

Horace  pleaded  abjectly  to  be  forgiven,  and  that  the 
room  might  remain  shadowed ;  but  Fanny  was  disturbed 
in  temper. 

"  If  you  don't  light  the  gas,  I'll  go  at  once." 

"I  haven't  any  matches,  darling." 

"  Oh,  just  like  you !  You  never  have  anything.  I 
thought  every  man  carried  matches." 

She  broke  from  him,  and  ran  out.  Wretched  in  the 
fear  that  she  might  not  return,  Horace  waited  on  the 
threshold.  In  the  drawing-room  some  one  was  singing 
"  The  Maid  of  the  Mill."  It  came  to  an  end,  and  there 
sounded  voices,  which  the  tormented  listener  strove  to 
recognise.  For  at  least  ten  minutes  he  waited,  and  was  all 
but  frantic,  when  the  girl  made  her  appearance,  coming 
downstairs. 

"  Never  do  that  again,"  she  said  viciously.  "  I've  had 
to  unfasten  my  things,  and  put  them  straight.  What  a 
nuisance  you  are  ! " 

He  stood  cowed  before  her,  limp  and  tremulous. 


80  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  There,  light  the  gas.  Why  couldn't  you  come  into 
the  drawing-room,  like  other  people  do  ? " 

"  Who  is  there  ? "  asked  the  young  man,  when  he  had 
obeyed  her. 

"  Go  and  see  for  yourself." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Fanny."  He  followed  her,  like  a  dog, 
as  she  walked  round  the  table  to  look  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  over  the  fireplace.  "  It  was  only  because  I'm  so 
fond  of  you." 

"  Oh,  what  a  silly  you  are  ! "  she  laughed,  seating  her- 
self on  the  arm  of  an  easy-chair.  "  Go  ahead  !  What's  the 
latest  ? " 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  I've  had  a  very  clear  understand- 
ing with  the  gov'nor  about  my  independence.  I  showed 
him  that  I  meant  having  my  own  way,  and  he  might  bully 
as  much  as  he  liked." 

It  was  not  thus  that  Horace  would  naturally  have 
spoken,  not  thus  that  he  thought  of  his  father.  Fanny 
had  subdued  him  to  her  own  level,  poisoned  him  with  the 
desires  excited  by  her  presence.  And  he  knew  his  base- 
ness ;  he  was  not  ignorant  of  the  girl's  ignoble  nature. 
Only  the  fury  of  a  virgin  passion  enabled  him  to  talk,  and 
sometimes  think,  as  though  he  were  in  love  with  ideal 
purity. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  had  the  pluck,"  said  Fanny,  swing- 
ing one  of  her  feet  as  she  tittered. 

"  That  shows  you  haven't  done  me  justice." 

"  And  you're  going  to  stay  out  late  at  night  ? " 

"As  late  as  I  like,"  Horace  answered,  crossing  his 
arms. 

"  Then  where  will  you  take  me  to-morrow  ? " 

It  happened  that  Horace  was  in  funds  just  now;  he 
had  received  his  quarter's  salary.  Board  and  lodging 
were  no  expense  to  him ;  he  provided  his  own  clothing, 
but,  with  this  exception,  had  to  meet  no  serious  claim. 
So,  in  reply  to  Fanny's  characteristic  question,  he  jingled 
coins. 

"  Wherever  you  like.—'  Dorothy,'  '  Ruddigore ' " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  81 

Delighted  with  his  assent,  she  became  more  gracious, 
permitted  a  modest  caress,  and  presently  allowed  herself 
to  be  drawn  on  to  her  lover's  knee.  She  was  passive,  un- 
concerned ;  no  second  year  graduate  of  the  pavement  could 
have  preserved  a  completer  equanimity  ;  it  d?d  not  appear 
that  her  pulse  quickened  ever  so  slightly,  nor  had  her  eye- 
lid the  suspicion  of  a  droop.  She  hummed  "  Queen  of  My 
Heart,"  and  grew  absent  in  speculative  thought,  whilst 
Horace  burned  and  panted  at  the  proximity  of  her  white 
flesh. 

"  Oh,  how  I  do  love  you,  Fanny  ! " 

She  trod  playfully  on  his  toe. 

"  You  haven't  told  the  old  gentleman  yet  ? " 

"I — I'm  thinking  about  it.  But,  Fanny,  suppose  he 
was  to — to  refuse  to  do  anything  for  us.  Would  it  make 
any  difference  ?  There  are  lots  of  people  who  marry  on  a 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year — oh  lots ! " 

The  maiden  arched  her  brows,  and  puckered  her  lips. 
Hitherto  it  had  been  taken  for  granted  that  Mr.  Lord 
would  be  ready  with  subsidy ;  Horace,  in  a  large,  vague 
way,  had  hinted  that  assurance  long  ago.  Fanny's  disin- 
clination to  plight  her  troth — she  still  deemed  herself  abso- 
lutely free — had  alone  interfered  between  the  young  man 
and  a  definite  project  of  marriage. 

"  What  kind  of  people  ? "  she  asked  coldly. 

"  Oh — respectable,  educated  people,  like  ourselves." 

"  And  live  in  apartments  ?  Thank  you ;  I  don't  quite 
see  myself.  There  isn't  a  bit  of  hurry,  dear  boy.  Wait  a 
bit."  She  began  to  sing  "  Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by." 

"  If  you  thought  as  much  of  me  as  I  do  of  you — 

Tired  of  her  position,  Fanny  jumped  up  and  took  a 
spoonful  of  sweet  jelly  from  a  dish  on  the  table. 

"Have  some?" 

"  Come  here  again.  I've  something  more  to  tell  you. 
Something  very  important." 

She  could  only  be  prevailed  upon  to  take  a  seat  near 
him.  Horace,  beset  with  doubts  as  to  his  prudence,  but 
unable  to  keep  the  secret,  began  to  recount  the  story  of  his 


82  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

meeting  with  Mrs.  Damerel,  whom  he  had  now  seen  for 
the  second  time.  Fanny's  curiosity,  instantly  awakened, 
grew  eager  as  he  proceeded.  She  questioned  with  skill 
and  pertinacity,  and  elicited  many  more  details  than 
Nancy  Lord  had  been  able  to  gather. 

u  You'll  promise  me  not  to  say  a  word  to  any  one  ? " 
pleaded  Horace. 

"  I  won't  open  my  lips.  But  you're  quite  sure  she's  as 
old  as  you  say  ?  " 

"  Old  enough  to  be  my  mother,  I  assure  you." 

The  girl's  suspicions  were  not  wholly  set  at  rest,  but 
she  made  no  further  display  of  them. 

"  Now  just  think  what  an  advantage  it  might  be  to  you, 
to  know  her,"  Horace  pursued.  "  She'd  introduce  you  at 
once  to  fashionable  society,  really  tip-top  people.  How 
would  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  Not  bad,"  was  the  judicial  reply. 

"She  must  have  no  end  of  money,  and  who  knows 
what  she  might  do  for  me  ! " 

"  It's  a  jolly  queer  thing,"  mused  the  maiden. 

"  There's  no  denying  that.  We  must  keep  it  close, 
whatever  we  do." 

"  You  haven't  told  anybody  else  ? " 

"  Not  a  soul ! "     Horace  lied  stoutly. 

They  were  surprised  by  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door ; 
a  servant  appeared  to  clear  the  table.  Fanny  reprimanded 
her  for  neglecting  to  kno'ck. 

"  We  may  as  well  go  into  the  drawing-room.  There's 
nobody  particular.  Only  Mrs.  Middlemist,  and  Mr.  Crewe, 
and— 

In  the  hall  they  encountered  Crewe  himself,  who  stood 
there  conversing  with  Beatrice.  A  few  words  were  ex- 
changed by  the  two  men,  and  Horace  followed  his  enchant- 
ress into  the  drawing-room,  where  he  found,  seated  in 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Peachey,  two  persons  whom  he 
had  occasionally  met  here.  One  of  them,  Mrs.  Middle- 
mist,  was  a  stout,  coarse,  high-coloured  woman,  with  fin- 
gers much  bejewelled.  Until  a  year  or  two  ago  she  had 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  83 

adorned  the  private  bar  of  a  public  house  kept  by  her  hus- 
band ;  retired  from  this  honourable  post,  she  now  devoted 
herself  to  society  and  the  domestic  virtues.  The  other 
guest,  Mrs.  Murch  by  name,  proclaimed  herself,  at  a  glance, 
of  less  prosperous  condition,  though  no  less  sumptuously 
arrayed.  Her  face  had  a  hungry,  spiteful,  leering  expres- 
sion ;  she  spoke  in  a  shrill,  peevish  tone,  and  wriggled  nerv- 
ously on  her  chair.  In  eleven  years  of  married  life,  Mrs. 
Murch  had  borne  six  children,  all  of  whom  died  before 
they  were  six  months  old.  She  lived  apart  from  her  hus- 
band, who  had  something  to  do  with  the  manufacture  of 
an  Infants'  Food. 

Fanny  was  requested  to  sing.  She  sat  down  at  the 
piano,  rattled  a  prelude,  and  gave  forth  an  echo  of  the 
music-halls  : 

"  It's  all  up  with  poor  Tommy  now, 
I  shall  never  more  be  happy,  I  vow. 

It's  just  a  week  to-day 

Since  my  Sairey  went  away, 
And  it's  all  up  with  poor  Tommy  now." 

Mrs.  Middlemist,  who  prided  herself  upon  serious  vocal 
powers,  remarked  that  comic  singing  should  be  confined 
to  men. 

"  You  haven't  a  bad  voice,  my  dear,  if  you  would  only 
take  pains  with  it.  Now  sing  us  'For  Ever  and  for 
Ever.' " 

This  song  being  the  speaker's  peculiar  glory,  she  was 
of  course  requested  to  sing  it  herself,  and,  after  entreaty, 
consented.  Her  eyes  turned  upward,  her  fat  figure  roll- 
ing from  side  to  side,  her  mouth  very  wide  open,  Mrs. 
Middlemist  did  full  justice  to  the  errotic  passion  of  this 
great  lyric : 

"  Perchawnce  if  we  'ad  never  met, 
We  'ad  been  spared  this  mad  regret, 
This  hendless  striving  to  forget — 
For  hever — hand — for  he-e-e-ver ! " 

Mrs.  Murch  let  her  head  droop  sentimentally.    Horace 


$4  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

glanced  at  Fanny,  who,  however,  seemed  absorbed  in  re- 
flections as  unsentimental  as  could  be. 

In  the  meanwhile,  on  a  garden  seat  under  the  calm  but 
misty  sky,  sat  Luckworth  Ore  we  and  Beatrice  French. 
Crewe  smoked  a  cigar  placidly ;  Beatrice  was  laying  be- 
fore him  the  suggestion  of  her  great  commercial  scheme, 
already  confided  to  Fanny. 

"  How  does  it  strike  you  ? "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  Not  bad,  old  chap.  There's  something  in  it,  if  you're 
clever  enough  to  carry  it  through.  And  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  you  are." 

"  Will  you  help  to  set  it  going  ?  " 

"  Can't  help  with  money,"  Crewe  replied. 

"  Very  well ;  will  you  help  in  other  ways  ?  Practical 
hints,  and  so  on  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Always  ready  to  encourage  merit 
in  the  money-making  line.  What  capital  are  you  pre- 
pared to  put  into  it  ? " 

"  Not  much.     The  public  must  supply  the  capital." 

"  A  sound  principle,"  Crewe  laughed.  "  But  I  shouldn't 
go  on  the  old  lines.  You  didn't  think  of  starting  a  limited 
company  ?  You'd  find  difficulties.  Now  wrhat  you  want 
to  start  is  a — let  us  call  it  the  South  London  Dress  Supply 
Association,  or  something  of  that  kind.  But  you  won't 
get  to  that  all  at  once.  You  ought  to  have  premises  to  be- 
gin with." 

"  I'm  aware  of  it." 

"  Can  you  raise  a  thousand  or  so  ? " 

"Yes,  I  could— if  I  chose." 

"  Now,  look  here.  Your  notion  of  the  Fashion  Club 
is  a  deuced  good  one,  and  I  don't  see  why  it  shouldn't 
be  pretty  easily  started.  Out  of  every  five  hundred 
women,  you  can  reckon  on  four  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  being  fools ;  and  there  isn't  a  female  fool  wrho 
wouldn't  read  and  think  about  a  circular  which  promised 
her  fashionable  dresses  for  an  unfashionable  price.  That's 
a  great  and  sound  basis  to  start  on.  What  I  advise  is, 
that  you  should  first  of  all  advertise  for  a  dress-making 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  85 

concern  that  would  admit  a  partner  with  a  small  capi- 
tal. You'll  have  between  ten  and  twelve  hundred  re- 
plies, but  don't  be  staggered ;  go  through  them  carefully, 
and  select  a  shop  that's  well  situated,  and  doing  a  respect- 
able trade.  Get  hold  of  these  people,  and  induce  them  to 
make  changes  in  their  business  to  suit  your  idea.  Then 
blaze  away  with  circulars,  headed  '  South  London  Fashion 
Club ; '  send  them  round  the  whole  district,  addressed  to 
women.  Every  idiot  of  them  will,  at  all  events,  come  and 
look  at  the  shop ;  that  can  be  depended  upon  ;  in  itself  no 
bad  advertisement.  Arrange  to  have  a  special  department 
—special  entrance,  if  possible— with  '  The  Club '  painted 
up.  Yes,  by  jingo !  Have  a  big  room,  with  comfortable 
chairs,  and  the  women's  weekly  papers  lying  about,  and 
smart  dresses  displayed  on  what-d'ye-call-'ems,  like  they 
have  in  windows.  Make  the  subscription  very  low  at  first, 
and  give  rattling  good  value ;  never  mind  if  you  lose  by 
it.  Then,  when  you've  got  hold  of  a  lot  of  likely  people, 
try  them  with  the  share  project.  By-the-bye,  if  you  lose 
no  time,  you  can  bring  in  the  Jubilee  somehow.  Yes, 
start  with  the  '  Jubilee  Fashion  Club.'  I  wonder  nobody's 
done  it  already." 

Beatrice  was  growing  elated. 

"  The  public  has  to  wait  for  its  benefactors,"  she  replied. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  would  you  like  me  to  sketch  you 
out  a  prospectus  of  the  Club  ? " 

"  Yes,  you  might  do  that  if  you  like.  You  won't  expect 
to  be  paid  ? " 

"  Hang  it !  what  do  you  take  me  for  ? " 

"Business  is  business,"  Miss  French  remarked  coldly. 

"  So  it  is.  And  friendship  is  friendship.  Got  a  match  ? " 
He  laughed.  "  No,  I  suppose  you  haven't." 

"  I'll  go  and  get  you  one  if  you  like." 

"  There's  a  good  fellow.     I'll  think  in  the  meantime." 

Beatrice  rose  lazily,  and  was  absent  for  several  minutes. 
When  she  returned,  Crewe  re-lit  his  cigar. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  start  the  shop  on  my  own  account  ? " 
Beatrice  asked. 


86  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  You  haven't  capital  enough.  A  little  place  wouldn't 
do." 

"  I  think  I  can  get  Fanny  to  join  me." 

"  Can  you  ?  What  will  young  Lord  have  to  say  to 
that?" 

uPsh!  That's  all  fooling.  It'll  never  come  to  any- 
thing. Unless,  of  course,  the  old  man  turned  up  his  toes, 
and  left  the  boy  a  tidy  sum.  But  he  won't  just  yet.  I've 
tola1  Fanny  that  if  she'll  raise  something  011  her  houses, 
I'll  guarantee  her  the  same  income  she  has  now." 

"  Take  my  advice,"  said  Crewe  weightily,  "  and  hook 
on  to  an  established  business.  Of  course,  you  can  change 
the  name  if  you  like ;  and  there'd  have  to  be  alterations, 
and  painting  up,  to  give  a  new  look." 

"  It's  risky,  dealing  with  strangers.  How  if  they  got 
hold  of  my  idea,  and  then  refused  to  take  me  in  ? " 

"  Well  now,  look  here.  After  all,  I'll  make  a  bargain 
with  you,  old  chap.  If  I  can  introduce  you  to  the  right 
people,  and  get  you  safely  started,  will  you  give  me  all 
your  advertising,  on  the  usual  commission  ? " 

"  You  mean,  give  it  to  Bullock  and  Freeman  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't.  It's  a  secret  just  yet,  but  I'm  going  to 
start  for  myself." 

Beatrice  was  silent.  They  exchanged  a  look  in  the 
gloom,  and  Crewe  nodded,  in  confirmation  of  his  an- 
nouncement. 

"  How  much  have  you  got  ? "  Miss  French  inquired 
carelessly.  • 

"  Not  much.  Most  of  tjie  capital  is  here."  He  touched 
his  forehead.  "  Same  as  with  you." 

The  young  woman  glanced  at  him  again,  and  said  in  a 
lower  voice : 

"  You'd  have  had  more  by  now,  if — 

Crewe  waited,  puffed  his  cigar,  but  she  did  not  finish. 

"  Maybe,"  he  replied  impartially.     "  Maybe  not." 

"  Don't  think  I'm  sorry,"  Beatrice  hastened  to  add.  "  It 
was  an  idea,  like  any  other." 

"  Not  half  a  bad  idea.    But  there  were  obstacles." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  8? 

After  a  pause,  Beatrice  inquired  : 

"Do  you  still  think  the  same  about  women  with 
money  ? " 

"Just  the  same,"  Crewe  replied  at  once,  though  with 
less  than  his  usual  directness  ;  the  question  seemed  to  make 
him  meditative.  "  Just  the  same.  Every  man  looks  at  it 
in  his  own  way,  of  course.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  chap  to 
knuckle  under  to  my  wife ;  and  there  isn't  one  woman  in 
a  thousand,  if  she  gave  her  husband  a  start,  could  help  re- 
minding him  of  it.  It's  the  wrong  way  about.  Let  women 
be  as  independent  as  they  like  as  long  as  they're  not  mar- 
ried. I  never  think  the  worse  of  them,  whatever  they  do 
that's  honest.  But  a  wife  must  play  second  fiddle,  and 
think  her  husband  a  small  god  almighty — that's  my  way 
of  looking  at  the  question." 

Beatrice  laughed  scornfully. 

"All  right.  We  shall  see. — When  do  you  start  busi- 
ness ? " 

"  This  side  Christmas.     End  of  September,  perhaps." 

"  You  think  to  snatch  a  good  deal  from  B.  &  F.,  I  dare- 
say?" 

Crewe  nodded  and  smiled. 

"  Then  you'll  look  after  this  affair  for  me  ? "  said  Bea- 
trice, with  a  return  to  the  tone  of  strict  business. 

"  Without  loss  of  time.  You  shall  be  advised  of  prog- 
ress. Of  course  I  must  debit  you  with  exes." 

"All  right.  Mind  you  charge  for  all  the  penny 
stamps." 

"  Every  one — don't  you  forget  it." 

He  stood  up,  tilted  forward  011  his  toes,  and  stretched 
himself. 

"I'll  be  trotting  homewards.  It'll  be  time  for  by-by 
when  I  get  to  Kenniiigton." 


88  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 


Ill 

NANCY  was  undisturbed  by  the  promotion  of  Mary 
Woodruff .  A  short  time  ago  it  would  have  off  ended  her ; 
she  would  have  thought  her  dignity,  her  social  prospects, 
imperilled.  She  was  now  careless  011  that  score,  and  felt 
it  a  relief  to  cast  off  the  show  of  domestic  authority.  Hence- 
forth her  position  would  be  like  that  of  Horace.  All  she 
now  desired  was  perfect  freedom  from  responsibility, — to 
be,  as  it  were,  a  mere  lodger  in  the  house,  to  come  and  go 
unquestioned  and  unrestrained  by  duties. 

Thus,  by  aid  of  circumstance,  had  she  put  herself  into 
complete  accord  with  the  spirit  of  her  time.  Abundant 
privilege ;  no  obligation.  A  reference  of  all  things  to  her 
sovereign  will  and  pleasure.  Withal,  a  defiant  rather  than 
a  hopeful  mood ;  resentment  of  the  undisguisable  fact  that 
her  will  was  sovereign  only  in  a  poor  little  sphere  which 
she  would  gladly  have  transcended. 

Now-a-days  she  never  went  in  the  direction  of  Cham- 
pion Hill,  formerly  her  favourite  walk.  If  Jessica  Morgan 
spoke  of  her  acquaintances  there,  she  turned  abruptly  to 
another  subject.  She  thought  of  the  place  as  an  abode  of 
arrogance  and  snobbery.  She  recalled  with  malicious  sat- 
isfaction her  ill-mannered  remark  to  Lionel  Tarrant.  Let 
him  think  of  her  as  he  would ;  at  all  events  he  could  no 
longer  imagine  her  overawed  by  his  social  prestige.  The 
probability  was  that  she  had  hurt  him  in  a  sensitive  spot ; 
it  might  be  hoped  that  the  wound  would  rankle  for  a  long 
time. 

Her  personal  demeanour  showed  a  change.  So  careful 
hitherto  of  feminine  grace  and  decorum,  she  began  to 
affect  a  mannishness  of  bearing,  a  bluntness  of  speech, 
such  as  found  favour  at  De  Crespigny  Park.  In  a  few 
weeks  she  had  resumed  friendly  intercourse  with  Mrs. 
Peachey  and  her  sisters,  and  spent  an  occasional  evening 
at  their  house.  Her  father  asked  no  questions  ;  she  rarely 
saw  him  except  at  meals.  A  stranger  must  have  observed 
the  signs  of  progressive  malady  in  Mr.  Lord's  face,  but 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  89 

Nancy  was  aware  of  nothing  to  cause  uneasiness;  she 
thought  of  him  as  suffering  a  little  from  "  gout "  ;  elderly 
people  were  of  course  subject  to  such  disorders.  On  most 
days  he  went  to  business  ;  if  he  remained  at  home,  Mary 
attended  him  assiduously,  and  he  would  accept  no  other 
ministration. 

Nancy  was  no  longer  inclined  to  study,  and  cared  little 
for  reading  of  any  sort.  That  new  book  on  Evolution, 
which  she  had  brought  from  the  library  just  before  Jubi- 
lee Day,  was  still  lying  about;  a  dozen  times  she  had 
looked  at  it  with  impatience,  and  reminded  herself  that  it 
must  be  returned.  Evolution !  She  already  knew  all 
about  Darwinism,  all  she  needed  to  know.  If  necessary 
she  could  talk  about  it — oh,  with  an  air.  But  who  wanted 
to  talk  about  such  things  ?  After  all,  only  priggish  peo- 
ple,— the  kind  of  people  who  lived  at  Champion  Hill.  Or 
idiots  like  Samuel  Bennett  Barmby,  who  bothered  about 
the  future  of  the  world.  What  was  it  to  her— the  future 
of  the  world  ?  She  wanted  to  live  in  the  present,  to  enjoy 
her  youth.  An  evening  like  that  she  had  spent  in  the 
huge  crowd,  with  a  man  like  Crewe  to  amuse  her  with  his 
talk,  was  worth  whole  oceans  of  "  culture." 

"  Culture  "  she  already  possessed,  abundance  of  it.  The 
heap  of  books  she  had  read  !  Last  winter  she  had  attended 
a  course  of  lectures,  delivered  by  a  young  University 
gentleman  with  a  tone  of  bland  omniscience,  on  "The 
History  of  Hellenic  Civilisation  ; "  her  written  answers  to 
the  little  "test  papers  "had  been  marked  "very  satisfac- 
tory." Was  it  not  a  proof  of  culture  achieved  ?  Edu- 
cation must  not  encroach  upon  the  years  of  maturity. 
Nature  marked  the  time  when  a  woman  should  begin 
to  live. 

There  was  poor  Jessica.  As  July  drew  on,  Jessica  be- 
gan to  look  cadaverous,  ghostly.  She  would  assuredly 
break  down  long  before  the  time  of  her  examination. 
What  a  wretched,  what  an  absurd  existence  !  Her  home, 
too,  was  so  miserable.  Mrs.  Morgan  lay  ill,  unable  to  at- 
tend to  anything ;  if  she  could  not  have  a  change  of  air,  it 


90  18   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

must  soon  be  all  over  with  her.  But  they  had  no  money, 
no  chance  of  going  to  the  seaside. 

It  happened  at  length  that  Mr.  Lord  saw  Jessica  one 
evening,  when  she  had  come  to  spend  an  hour  in  Grove 
Lane.  After  her  departure,  he  asked  Nancy  what  was  the 
matter  with  the  girl,  and  Nancy  explained  the  situation. 

"Well,  why  not  take  her  with  you,  when  you  go 
away  ? " 

"  I  didn't  know  that  I  was  going  away,  father.  Nothing 
has  been  said  of  it." 

"  It's  your  own  business.  I  leave  you  to  make  what 
plans  you  like." 

Nancy  reflected. 

"You  ought  to  have  a  change,"  she  said  considerately. 
"It  would  do  you  good.  Suppose  we  all  go  to  Teign- 
mouth  ?  I  should  think  that  would  suit  you.*' 

"  Why  Teignmouth  ? " 

"  I  enjoyed  it  last  year.  And  the  lodgings  were  com- 
fortable. We  could  have  the  same,  from  the  first  week  in 
August." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  I  wrote  the  other  day,  and  asked,"  Nancy  replied  with 
a  smile. 

But  Mr.  Lord  declined  to  leave  home.  Mary  Wood- 
ruff did  her  best  to  persua'de  him,  until  he  angrily  imposed 
silence.  In  a  day  or  two  he  said  to  Nancy : 

"  If  you  wish  to  go  to  Teignmouth,  take  Jessica  and 
her  mother.  People  mustn't  die  for  want  of  a  five-pound 
note.  Make  your  arrangements,  and  let  me  know  what 
money  you'll  need." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,  father." 

Mr.  Lord  turned  away.  His  daughter  noticed  that  he 
walked  feebly,  and  she  felt  a  moment's  compunction. 

"  Father — you  are  not  so  well  to-day." 

Without  looking  round,  he  replied  that  he  would  be 
well  enough  if  left  alone ;  and  Nancy  did  not  venture  to 
say  more. 

A  few  days  later,  she  called  in  De  Crespigny  Park  after 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  91 

dinner-time.  Mrs.  Peachey  and  Fanny  were  at  Brighton  ; 
Beatrice  had  preferred  to  stay  in  London,  being  very  busy 
with  her  great  project.  Whilst  she  talked  of  it  with 
Nancy,  Peachey  and  Luckworth  Crewe  came  in  together. 
There  was  sprightly  conversation,  in  which  the  host,  ob- 
viously glad  of  his  wife's  absence,  took  a  moderate  part. 
Presently,  Miss  Lord  and  he  found  themselves  gossip- 
ing alone;  the  other  two  had  moved  aside,  and,  as  a 
look*  informed  Nancy,  were  deep  in  confidential  dia- 
logue. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  business  ? "  she  asked  her 
companion  in  an  undertone. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  answers,"  said  the  young 
man,  speaking  as  usual,  with  a  soft,  amiable  voice.  "  Our 
friend  is  helping,  and  he  generally  knows  what  he's 
about." 

Crewe  remained  only  for  half-an-hour ;  on  shaking 
hands  with  him,  Nancy  made  known  that  she  was  going 
to  the  seaside  next  Monday  for  a  few  weeks,  and  the  man 
of  business  answered  only  with  "  I  hope  you'll  enjoy  your- 
self." Soon  afterwards,  she  took  leave.  At  the  junction 
of  De  Crespigny  Park  and  Grove  Lane,  some  one  ap- 
proached her,  and  with  no  great  surprise  Nancy  saw  that 
it  was  Crewe. 

"  Been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said.  "  You  remember  you 
promised  me  another  walk." 

"  Oh,  it's  much  too  late." 

"Of  course  it  is.  I  didn't  mean  now.  But  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Impossible."  She  moved  on,  in  the  direction  away 
from  her  home.  "  I  shall  be  with  friends  in  the  evening, 
the  Morgans." 

u  Confound  it !  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you 
for  last  Saturday,  but  some  country  people  nabbed  me  for 
the  whole  of  that  day.  I  took  them  up  the  Monument, 
and  up  St.  Paul's." 

"  I've  never  been  up  the  Monument,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Never  ?     Come  to-morrow  afternoon  then.     You  can 


92  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

spare  the  afternoon.  Let's  meet  early  somewhere.  Take 
a  bus  to  London  Bridge.  I'll  be  at  the  north  end  of  Lon- 
don Bridge  at  three  o'clock." 

"All  right ;  I'll  be  there,"  Nancy  replied  offhand. 

"  You  really  will  ?  Three,  sharp.  I  was  never  late  at 
an  appointment,  business  or  pleasure." 

u  Which  do  you  consider  this  ? "  asked  his  companion, 
with  a  shrewd  glance. 

"  Now  that's  unkind.  I  came  here  to-night  on  busi- 
ness, though.  You  quite  understand  that,  didn't  you  ? 
I  shouldn't  like  you  to  make  any  mistake.  Business,  pure 
and  simple." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  replied  Nancy,  with  an  ingenuous 
air.  "  What  else  could  it  be  ? "  And  she  added,  "  Don't 
come  any  further.  Ta-ta  ! " 

Crewe  went  off  into  the  darkness. 

The  next  afternoon,  Nancy  alighted  at  London  Bridge 
a  full  quarter  of  an  hour  late.  It  had  been  raining  at  in- 
tervals through  the  day,  and  clouds  still  cast  a  gloom  over 
the  wet  streets.  Crewe,  quite  insensible  to  atmospheric 
influence,  came  forward  with  his  wonted  brisk  step  and 
animated  visage.  At  Miss  Lord's  side  he  looked  rather 
more  plebeian  than  when  walking  by  himself;  his  high- 
hat,  not  of  the  newest,  utterly  misbecame  his  head,  and 
was  always  at  an  unconventional  angle,  generally  tilting 
back ;  his  clothes,  of  no  fashionable  cut,  bore  the  traces  of 
perpetual  hurry  and  multifarious  impact.  But  he  carried 
a  perfectly  new  and  expensive  umbrella,  to  which,  as  soon 
as  he  had  shaken  hands  with  her,  he  drew  Nancy's  atten- 
tion. 

"A  present  this  morning,  from  a  friend  of  mine  in  the 
business.  I  ran  into  his  shop  to  get  shelter.  Upon  my 
word,  I  had  no  intention ;  didn't  think  anything  about  it. 
However,  he  owed  me  an  acknowledgment ;  I've  sent  him 
three  customers  from  our  office  since  I  saw  him  last.  By- 
the-bye,  I  shall  have  half  a  day  at  the  sea-side  on  Monday. 
There's  a  sale  of  building-plots  down  at  Whitsand.  The 
estate  agents  run  a  complimentary  special  train  for  people 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  93 

going  down  to  bid,  and  give  a  lunch  before  the  auction  be- 
gins. Not  bad  business." 

"  Are  you  going  to  bid  ? "  asked  Nancy. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  look,  at  all  events ;  and  if  I  see 
anything  that  takes  my  fancy .  Ever  been  to  Whit- 
sand  ?  I'm  told  it's  a  growing  place.  I  should  like  to 
get  hold  of  a  few  advertising  stations.— Where  is  it  you 
are  going  to  on  Monday  ?  Teignmouth  ?  I  don't  know 
that  part  of  the  country.  Wish  I  could  run  down,  but  I 
shan't  have  time.  I've  got  my  work  cut  out  for  August 
and  September.  Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  the 
place  where  I  think  of  opening  shop  ? " 

"Is  it  far?" 

"  No.  We'll  walk  round  when  we've  been  up  the  Mon- 
ument. You  don't  often  go  about  the  City,  I  daresay. 
Nothing  doing,  of  course,  on  a  Saturday  afternoon." 

Nancy  made  him  moderate  his  pace,  which  was  too 
quick  for  her.  Part  of  the  pleasure  she  found  in  Crewe's 
society  came  from  her  sense  of  being  so  undeniably  his 
superior ;  she  liked  to  give  him  a  sharp  command,  and  ob- 
serve his  ready  obedience.  To  his  talk  she  listened  with  a 
good-natured,  condescending  smile,  occasionally  making  a 
remark  which  implied  a  more  liberal  view,  a  larger  intel- 
ligence, than  his.  Thus,  as  they  stood  for  a  moment  to 
look  down  at  the  steamboat  wharf,  and  Crewe  made  some 
remark  about  the  value  of  a  cargo  just  being  discharged, 
she  said  carelessly : 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  view  you  take  of  everything  ? 
You  rate  everything  at  market  price." 

"  Marketable  things,  of  course.  But  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  understand  that  I'm  not  always  thinking  of  the 
shop.  Wait  till  I've  made  money. — Now  then,  clumsy ! " 

A  man,  leaning  over  the  parapet  by  Nancy's  side,  had 
pushed  against  her.  Thus  addressed  he  glared  at  the 
speaker,  but  encountered  a  bellicose  look  which  kept  him 
quiet, 

"  I  shall  live  in  a  big  way,"  Crewe  continued,  as  they 
walked  on  towards  Fish  Street  Hill.  "  Not  for  the  swag- 
7 


94  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

ger  of  it ;  I  don't  care  about  that,  but  because  I've  a  taste 
for  luxury.  I  shall  have  a  country  house,  and  keep  good 
horses.  And  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  farm  of  my 
own,  a  model  farm  ;  make  my  own  butter  and  cheese,  and 
know  that  I  ate  the  real  thing.  I  shall  buy  pictures. 
Haven't  I  told  you  I  like  pictures  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  shall  go 
round  among  the  artists,  and  encourage  talent  that  hasn't 
made  itself  known." 

"  Can  you  recognise  it  ? "  asked  Nancy. 
u  Well,  I  shall  learn  to.     And  I  shall  have  my  wife's 
portrait  painted  by  some  first-rate  chap,  never  mind  what 
it  costs,  and  hung  in  the  Academy.     That's  a  great  idea  of 
mine — to  see  my  wife's  portrait  in  the  Academy." 
His  companion  laughed. 

"Take  care,  then,  that  your  wife  is  ornamental." 
"  I'll  take  precious  good  care  of  that ! "  Crewe  exclaimed 
merrily.     "Do  you  suppose  I  should  dream  of  marrying  a 
woman  who  wasn't  good-looking  ? " 

"  Don't  shout,  please.  People  can  hear  you." 
"  I  beg  your  pardon."  His  voice  sank  to  humility. 
"  That's  a  bad  habit  of  mine.  But  I  was  going  to  say — I 
went  to  the  Academy  this  year  just  to  look  at  the  portraits 
of  men's  wives.  There  was  nothing  particular  in  that 
line.  Not  a  woman  I  should  have  felt  particularly  proud 
of.  Tastes  differ,  of  course.  Mine  has  altered  a  good  deal 
in  the  last  ten  years.  A  man  can't  trust  himself  about 
women  till  he's  thirty,  or  near  it." 

"  Talk  of  something  else,"  Nancy  commanded. 
"  Certainly.     There's  the  sun  coming  out.     You  see,  I 
was  afraid  it  would  keep  on  raining,  and  you  would  have 
an  excuse  for  staying  at  home." 

"  I  needed  no  excuse,"  said  Nancy.     "  If  I  hadn't  wished 
to  come,  you  may  be  sure  I  should  have  said  so." 
Crewe  flashed  a  look  at  her. 

"  Ah,  that's  how  I  like  to  hear  you  speak !  That  does 
one  good.  Well,  here  we  are.  People  used  to  be  fond  of 
going  up,  they  say,  just  to  pitch  themselves  down.  A 
good  deal  of  needless  trouble,  it  seems  to  me.  Perhaps 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  95 

they  gave  themselves  the  off-chance  of  changing  their 
minds  before  they  got  to  the  top." 

"  Or  wanted  to  see  if  life  looked  any  better  from  up 
there,"  suggested  Nancy. 

"  Or  hoped  somebody  would  catch  them  by  the  coat- 
tails,  and  settle  a  pension  on  them  out  of  pity." 

Thus  jesting,  they  began  the  ascent.  Crewe,  whose  spir- 
its were  at  high  pressure,  talked  all  the  way  up  the  wind- 
ing stairs  ;  on  issuing  into  daylight,  he  became  silent,  and 
they  stood  side  by  side,  mute  before  the  vision  of  London's 
immensity.  Nancy  began  to  move  round  the  platform. 
The  strong  west  wind  lashed  her  cheeks  to  a  glowing  col- 
our ;  excitement  added  brilliancy  to  her  eyes.  As  soon  as 
she  had  recovered  from  the  first  impression,  this  spectacle 
of  a  world's  wonder  served  only  to  exhilarate  her ;  she  was 
not  awed  by  what  she  looked  upon.  In  her  conceit  of  self- 
importance,  she  stood  there,  above  the  battling  millions  of 
men,  proof  against  mystery  and  dread,  untouched  by  the 
voices  of  the  past,  and  in  the  present  seeing  only  common 
things,  though  from  an  odd  point  of  view.  Here  her 
senses  seemed  to  make  literal  the  assumption  by  which  her 
mind  had  always  been  directed  :  that  she — Nancy  Lord — 
was  the  mid  point  of  the  universe.  No  humility  awoke  in 
her ;  she  felt  the  stirring  of  envies,  avidities,  unavowable 
passions,  and  let  them  nourish  unrebuked. 

Crewe  had  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her ;  his  lips  parted  hun- 
grily. 

"  Now  that's  how  I  should  like  to  see  you  painted,"  he 
said  all  at  once.  "  Just  like  that !  I  never  saw  you  look- 
ing so  well.  I  believe  you're  the  most  beautiful  girl  to 
be  found  anywhere  in  this  London  ! " 

There  was  genuine  emotion  in  his  voice,  and  his  sweep- 
ing gesture  suited  the  mood  of  vehemence.  Nancy,  hav- 
ing seen  that  the  two  or  three  other  people  on  the  platform 
were  not  wittiin  hearing,  gave  an  answer  of  which  the 
frankness  surprised  even  herself. 

"Portraits  for  the  Academy  cost  a  great  deal,  you 
know." 


96  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"I  know.  But  that's  what  I'm  working  for.  There 
are  not  many  men  down  yonder,"  he  pointed  over  the 
City,  "have  a  better  head  for  money-making  than  I 
have." 

"Well,  prove  it,"  replied  Nancy,  and  laughed  as  the 
wind  caught  her  breath. 

"  How  long  will  you  give  me  ? " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  walked  to  the  side  whence 
she  could  look  westward.  Crewe  followed  close,  his  fea- 
tures still  set  in  the  hungry  look,  his  eyes  never  moving 
from  her  warm  cheek  and  full  lips. 

"  What  it  must  be,"  she  said,  "  to  have  about  twenty 
thousand  a  year !." 

The  man  of  business  gave  a  gasp.  In  the  same  mo- 
ment he  had  to  clutch  at  his  hat  lest  it  should  be  blown 
away. 

"Twenty  thousand  a  year?"  he  echoed.  "Well,  it 
isn't  impossible.  Men  get  beyond  that,  and  a  good  deal 
beyond  it.  But  it's  a  large  order." 

"  Of  course  it  is.  But  what  was  it  you  said  ?  The 
most  beautiful  girl  in  all  London  ?  That's  a  large  order, 
too,  isn't  it  ?  How  much  is  she  worth  ? " 

"You're  talking  for  the  joke  now,"  said  Crewe.  "I 
don't  like  to  hear  that  kind  of  thing,  either.  You  never 
think  in  that  way." 

"  My  thoughts  are  my  own.     I  may  think  as  I  choose." 

"  Yes.     But  you  have  thoughts  above  money." 

"  Have  I  ?  How  kind  of  you  to  say  so. — I've  had 
enough  of  this  wind  ;  we'll  go  down." 

She  led  the  way,  and  neither  of  them  spoke  till  they 
were  in  the  street  again.  Nancy  felt  her  hair. 

"  Am  I  blown  to  pieces  ? "  she  asked. 

"No,  no;  you're  all  right.  Now,  will  you  walk 
through  the  City  ?  " 

"  Where's  the  place  you  spoke  of  ? " 

"Farringdon  Street.  That'll  bring  you  round  to 
Blackfriars  Bridge,  when  you  want  to  go  home.  But 
there's  plenty  of  time  yet." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  97 

So  they  rambled  aimlessly  by  the  great  thoroughfares, 
and  by  hidden  streets  of  which  Nancy  had  never  heard, 
talking  or  silent  as  the  mood  dictated.  Crewe  had  stories 
to  tell  of  this  and  that  thriving  firm,  of  others  struggling 
in  obscurity  or  falling  from  high  estate  ;  to  him  the  streets 
of  London  were  so  many  chapters  of  romance,  but  a 
romance  always  of  to-day,  for  he  neither  knew  nor  cared 
about  historic  associations.  Vast  sums  sounded  perpetu- 
ally on  his  lips ;  he  glowed  with  envious  delight  in  telling 
of  speculations  that  had  built  up  great  fortunes.  He 
knew  the  fabulous  rents  that  were  paid  for  sites  that 
looked  insignificant ;  he  repeated  anecdotes  of  calls  made 
from  Somerset  House  upon  men  of  business,  who  had 
been  too  modest  in  returning  the  statement  of  their  in- 
come ;  he  revived  legends  of  dire  financial  disaster,  and 
of  catastrophe  barely  averted  by  strange  expedients.  To 
all  this  Nancy  listened  with  only  moderate  interest ;  as 
often  as  not,  she  failed  to  understand  the  details  which 
should  have  excited  her  wonder.  None  the  less,  she  re- 
ceived an  impression  of  knowledge,  acuteness,  power,  in 
the  speaker  ;  and  this  was  decidedly  pleasant. 

"  Here's  the  place  where  I  think  of  starting  for  my- 
self," said  Crewe,  as  he  paused  at  length  before  a  huge 
building  in  Farringdon  Street. 

"  This  ?— Can  you  afford  such  a  rent  ?  " 

Her  companion  burst  into  laughter. 

"  I  don't  mean  the  whole  building.  Two  or  three 
rooms,  that's  all,  somewhere  upstairs." 

Nancy  made  a  jest  of  her  mistake. 

"  An  advertising  agent  doesn't  want  much  space,"  said 
Crewe.  "  I  know  a  chap  who's  doing  a  pretty  big  business 
in  one  room,  not  far  from  here. — Well,  we've  had  a  long 
walk  ;  now  you  must  rest  a  bit,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  propose  champagne." 

"  Oh— if  you  like " 

They  went  to  a  restaurant  in  Fleet  Street,  and  sat  for 
half  an  hour  over  the  milder  beverage.  Crewe  talked  of 
his  projects,  his  prospects ;  and  Nancy,  whom  the  after- 


98  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

noon  had  in  truth  fatigued  a  little,  though  her  mind  was 
still  excited,  listened  without  remark. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  leaning  towards  her,  "  how 
long  do  you  give  me  ?  " 

She  looked  away,  and  kept  silence. 

"  Two  years  : — just  to  make  a  solid  start ;  to  show  that 
something  worth  talking  about  is  to  come  ?  " 

"  I'll  think  about  it." 

He  kept  his  position,  and  gazed  at  her. 

"  I  know  it  isn't  money  that  would  tempt  you."  He 
spoke  in  a  very  low  voice,  though  no  one  was  within  ear- 
shot. "  Don't  think  I  make  any  mistake  about  that  I 
But  I  have  to  show  you  that  there's  something  in  me.  I 
wouldn't  marry  any  woman  that  thought  I  made  love  to 
her  out  of  interest." 

Nancy  began  to  draw  on  her  gloves,  and  smiled,  just 
biting  her  lower  lip. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  couple  of  years,  from  to-day  ?  I 
won't  bother  you.  It's  honour  bright !  " 

"  I'll  think  about  it,"  Nancy  repeated. 

"  Whilst  you're  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  whilst  I'm  away  at  Teignmouth." 

"•  And  tell  me  when  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  Tell  you — how  long.    Yes." 

And  she  rose. 


IV 

FROM  the  mouth  of  Exe  to  the  mouth  of  Teign  the 
coast  is  uninteresting.  Such  beauty  as  it  once  possessed 
has  been  destroyed  by  the  railway.  Cliffs  of  red  sand- 
stone drop  to  the  narrow  beach,  warm  between  the  blue  of 
sky  and  sea,  but  without  grandeur,  and  robbed  of  their 
native  grace  by  navvy-hewing,  which  for  the  most  part 
makes  of  them  a  mere  embankment :  their  verdure 
stripped  away,  their  juttings  tunnelled,  along  their  base 
the  steel  parallels  of  smoky  traffic.  Dawlish  and  Teign- 
mouth have  in  themselves  no  charm  ;  hotel  and  lodging- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  99 

house,  shamed  by  the  soft  pure  light  that  falls  about  them, 
look  blankly  seaward,  hiding  what  remains  of  farm  or 
cottage  in  the  older  parts.  Ebb-tide  uncovers  no  fair 
stretch  of  sand,  and  at  flood  the  breakers  are  thwarted 
on  a  bulwark  of  piled  stone,  which  supports  the  railway, 
or  protects  a  promenade. 

But  inland  these  discontents  are  soon  forgotten  ;  there 
amid  tilth  and  pasture,  gentle  hills  and  leafy  hollows  of 
rural  Devon,  the  eye  rests  and  the  mind  is  soothed.  By 
lanes  innumerable,  deep  between  banks  of  fern  and 
flower;  by  paths  along  the  bramble-edge  of  scented 
meadows  ;  by  the  secret  windings  of  copse  and  brake  and 
stream-worn  valley — a  way  lies  upward  to  the  long  ridge 
of  Haldon,  where  breezes  sing  among  the  pines,  or  sweep 
rustling  through  gorse  and  bracken.  Mile  after  mile  of 
rustic  loveliness,  ever  and  anon  the  sea-limits  blue  beyond 
grassy  slopes.  White  farms  dozing  beneath  their  thatch 
in  harvest  sunshine;  hamlets  forsaken  save  by  women 
and  children,  by  dogs  and  cats  and  poultry,  the  labourers 
afield.  Here  grow  the  tall  foxgloves  bending  a  purple 
head  in  the  heat  of  noon  ;  here  the  great  bells  of  the  con- 
volvulus hang  thick  from  lofty  hedges,  massing  their  pink 
and  white  against  dark  green  leafage ;  here  amid  shad- 
owed undergrowth  trail  the  long  fronds  of  lustrous  harts- 
tongue  ;  wherever  the  eye  falls,  profusion  of  summer's 
glory.  Here,  in  many  a  nook  carpeted  with  softest  turf, 
canopied  with  tangle  of  leaf  and  bloom,  solitude  is  safe 
from  all  intrusion — unless  it  be  that  of  flitting  bird,  or  of 
some  timid  wild  thing  that  rustles  for  a  moment  and  is 
gone.  From  dawn  till  midnight,  as  from  midnight  till 
dawn,  one  who  would  be  alone  with  nature  might  count 
upon  the  security  of  these  bosks  and  dells. 

By  Nancy  Lord  and  her  companions  such  pleasures 
were  unregarded.  For  the  first  few  days  after  their  ar- 
rival at  Teignmouth,  they  sat  or  walked  on  the  promenade, 
walked  or  sat  011  the  pier,  sat  or  walked  011  the  Den — a 
long,  wide  lawn,  decked  about  with  shrubs  and  flower- 
beds, between  sea-fronting  houses  and  the  beach.  Nancy 


100  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

had  no  wish  to  exert  herself,  for  the  weather  was  hot ; 
after  her  morning  bathe  with  Jessica,  she  found  amuse- 
ment enough  in  watching  the  people — most  of  whom  were 
here  simply  to  look  at  each  other,  or  in  listening  to  the 
band,  which  played  selections  from  Sullivan  varied  with 
dance  music,  or  in  reading  a  novel  from  the  book-lender's 
— that  is  to  say,  gazing  idly  at  the  page,  and  letting  such 
significance  as  it  possessed  float  upon  her  thoughts. 

She  was  pleasantly  conscious  that  the  loungers  who 
passed  by,  male  and  female,  gave  something  of  attention 
to  her  face  and  costume.  Without  attempting  to  rival  the 
masterpieces  of  fashion  which  invited  envy  or  wonder 
from  all  observers,  she  thought  herself  nicely  dressed,  and 
had  in  fact,  as  always,  made  good  use  of  her  father's  lib- 
erality. Her  taste  in  garments  had  a  certain  timidity  that 
served  her  well ;  by  avoiding  the  extremes  of  mode,  and 
in  virtue  of  her  admirable  figure,  she  took  the  eye  of  those 
who  looked  for  refinement  rather  than  for  extravagance. 
The  unconsidered  grace  of  her  bearing  might  be  recognised 
by  all  whom  such  things  concerned ;  it  by  no  means  sug- 
gested that  she  came  from  a  small  house  in  Camber  well. 
In  her  companions,  to  be  sure,  she  was  unfortunate ;  but 
the  over-modest  attire  and  unimpressive  persons  of  Mrs. 
Morgan  and  Jessica  at  least  did  her  the  office  of  relief  by 
contrast. 

Nancy  had  made  this  reflection ;  she  was  not  above  it. 
Yet  her  actual  goodness  of  heart  saved  her  from  ever  feel- 
ing ashamed  of  the  Morgans.  It  gratified  her  to  think 
that  she  was  doing  them  a  substantial  kindness ;  but  for 
her,  they  would  have  dragged  through  a  wretched  sum- 
mer in  their  unwholesome,  jimcrack  house,  without  a 
breath  of  pure  air,  without  a  sight  of  the  free  heaven. 
And  to  both  of  them  that  would  probably  have  meant  a 
grave  illness. 

Mrs.  Morgan  was  a  thin,  tremulous  woman,  with  watery 
eyes  and  a  singular  redness  about  the  prominent  part  of 
her  face,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  determination  of 
blood  to  the  nose.  All  her  married  life  had  been  spent  in 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  101 

a  cheerless  struggle  to  maintain  the  externals  of  gentility. 
Not  that  she  was  vain  or  frivolous — indeed  her  natural 
tendencies  made  for  homeliness  in  everything — but,  by 
birth  and  by  marriage  connected  with  genteel  people,  she 
felt  it  impossible  to  abandon  that  mode  of  living  which  is 
supposed  to  distinguish  the  educated  class  from  all  beneath 
it.  She  had  brought  into  the  world  three  sons  and  three 
daughters ;  of  the  former,  two  were  dead,  and  of  the  latter, 
one, — in  each  case,  poverty  of  diet  having  proved  fatal  to 
a  weak  constitution.  For  close  upon  thirty  years  the 
family  had  lived  in  houses  of  which  the  rent  was  out  of 
all  reasonable  proportion  to  their  means  ;  at  present,  with 
a  total  income  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  (Mr.  Mor- 
gan called  himself  a  commission  agent,  and  seldom  had 
anything  to  do),  they  paid  in  rent  and  rates  a  matter  of 
fifty-five,  and  bemoaned  the  fate  which  neighboured  them 
with  people  only  by  courtesy  to  be  called  gentlefolk.  Of 
course  they  kept  a  servant, — her  wages  nine  pounds  a  year. 
Whilst  the  mother  and  elder  daughter  were  at  Teign- 
mouth,  Mr.  Morgan,  his  son,  and  the  younger  girl  felt 
themselves  justified  in  making  up  for  lack  of  holiday  by 
an  extra  supply  of  butcher's  meat. 

Well-meaning,  but  with  as  little  discretion  in  this  as 
in  other  things,  Mrs.  Morgan  allowed  scarce  an  hour  of 
the  day  to  pass  without  uttering  her  gratitude  to  Nancy 
Lord  for  the  benefit  she  was  enjoying.  To  escape  these 
oppressive  thanks,  Nancy  did  her  best  never  to  be  alone 
with  the  poor  lady ;  but  a  tete-a-tete  was  occasionally  un- 
avoidable, as,  for  instance,  on  the  third  or  fourth  day  after 
their  arrival,  when  Mrs.  Morgan  had  begged  Nancy's  com- 
pany for  a  walk  on  the  Den,  whilst  Jessica  wrote  letters. 
At  the  end  of  a  tedious  hour  Jessica  joined  them,  and  her 
face  had  an  unwonted  expression.  She  beckoned  her 
friend  apart. 

"  You'll  be  surprised.     Who  do  you  think  is  here  ? " 

"No  one  that  will  bore  us,  I  hope." 

"  Mr.  Tarrant.  I  met  him  near  the  post-office,  and  he 
stopped  me." 


102  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Nancy  frowned. 

'"  Are  they  all  here  again  ? " 

"  No ;  he  says  he's  alone. — One  minute,  mamma ;  please 
excuse  us." 

"  He  was  surprised  to  see  you  ? "  said  Nancy,  after 
reflecting1. 

"  He  said  so.  But— I  forgot  to  tell  you— in  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Baker  I  spoke  of  our  plans.  She  had  written  to  me 
to  propose  a  pupil  for  after  the  holidays. — Perhaps  she 
didn't  mention  it  to  Mr.  Tarrant." 

"  Evidently  not ! "  Nancy  exclaimed,  with  some  impa- 
tience. "  Why  should  you  doubt  his  word  ? " 

"  I  can't  help  thinking  " — Jessica  smiled  archly — "  that 
he  has  come  just  to  meet — somebody." 

"  Somebody  ?  Who  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  her  friend, 
with  a  look  of  sincere  astonishment. 

"I  may  be  mistaken" — a  glance  completed  the  sug- 
gestion. 

"Rubbish!" 

For  the  rest  of  that  day  the  subject  was  unmentioned. 
Nancy  kept  rather  to  herself,  and  seemed  meditative. 
Next  morning  she  was  in  the  same  mood.  The  tide  served 
for  a  bathe  at  eleven  o'clock;  afterwards,  as  the  girls 
walked  briskly  to  and  fro  near  the  seat  where  Mrs.  Mor- 
gan had  established  herself  with  a  volume  of  Browning, — 
Jessica  insisted  on  her  reading  Browning,  though  the  poor 
mother  protested  that  she  scarcely  understood  a  word, — 
they  came  full  upon  the  unmistakable  presence  of  Mr. 
Lionel  Tarrant.  Miss  Morgan,  in  acknowledging  his  sa- 
lute, offered  her  hand  ;  it  was  by  her  that  the  young  man 
had  stopped.  Miss  Lord  only  bent  her  head,  and  that 
slightly.  Tarrant  expected  more,  but  his  half-raised  hand 
dropped  in  time,  and  he  directed  his  speech  to  Jessica. 
He  had  nothing  to  say  but  what  seemed  natural  and  civil ; 
the  dialogue — Nancy  remained  mute — occupied  but  a  few 
minutes,  and  Tarrant  went  his  way,  sauntering  landwards. 

As  Mrs.  Morgan  had  observed  the  meeting,  it  was 
necessary  to  offer  her  an  explanation.  But  Jessica  gave 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  103 

only  the  barest  facts  concerning  their  acquaintance,  and 
Nancy  spoke  as  though  she  hardly  knew  him. 

The  weather  was  oppressively  hot;  in  doors  or  out, 
little  could  be  done  but  sit  or  lie  in  enervated  attitudes,  a 
state  of  things  accordant  with  Nancy's  mood.  Till  late  at 
night  she  watched  the  blue  starry  sky  from  her  open  win- 
dow, seeming  to  reflect,  but  in  reality  wafted  on  a  stream 
of  fancies  and  emotions.  Jessica's  explanation  of  the 
arrival  of  Lionel  Tarrant  had  strangely  startled  her ;  no 
such  suggestion  would  have  occurred  to  her  own  mind. 
Comparing  him  with  Luckworth  Crewe,  she  felt  only  a 
contemptuous  distaste  for  the  coarse  vitality  and  vigour, 
whereto  she  had  half  surrendered  herself,  when  hopeless 
of  the  more  ambitious  desire. 

Rising  early,  she  went  out  before  breakfast,  and  found 
that  a  little  rain  had  fallen.  Grass  and  flowers  were 
freshened ;  the  air  had  an  exquisite  clearness,  and  a  cool- 
ness which  struck  delightfully  on  the  face,  after  the  close 
atmosphere  within  doors.  She  had  paused  to  watch  a 
fishing-boat  off  shore,  when  a  cheery  voice  bade  her 
"good-morning,"  and  Tarrant  stepped  to  her  side. 

"  You  are  fond  of  this  place,"  he  said. 

"  Not  particularly." 

"  Then  why  do  you  choose  it  ? " 

"  It  does  for  a  holiday  as  well  as  any  other." 

He  was  gazing  at  her,  and  with  the  look  which  Nancy 
resented,  the  look  which  made  her  feel  his  social  supe- 
riority. He  seemed  to  observe  her  features  with  a  conde- 
scending gratification.  Though  totally  ignorant  of  his 
life  and  habits,  she  felt  a  conviction  that  he  had  often 
bestowed  this  look  upon  girls  of  a  class  below  his  own. 

"  How  do  you  like  those  advertisements  of  soaps  and 
pills  along  the  pier  ? "  he  asked  carelessly. 

"  I  see  no  harm  in  them." 

Perversity  prompted  her  answer,  but  at  once  she  re- 
membered Crewe,  and  turned  away  in  annoyance.  Tar- 
rant was  only  the  more  good-humoured. 

u  You  like  the  world  as  it  is  ?    There's  wisdom  in  that. 


104  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Better  be  in  harmony  with  one's  time,  advertisements  and 
all."    He  added,  "  Are  you  reading  for  an  exam  ? " 
"  I  ?    You  are  confusing  me  with  Miss  Morgan." 
"  Oh,  not  for  a  moment !    I  couldn't  possibly  confuse 
you  with  any  one  else.     I  know  Miss  Morgan  is  studying 
professionally ;  but  I  thought  you  were  reading  for  your 
own  satisfaction,  as  so  many  women  do  now-a-days." 

The  distinction  was  nattering.  Nancy  yielded  to  the 
charm  of  his  voice  and  conversed  freely.  It  began  to 
seem  not  impossible  that  he  found  some  pleasure  in  her 
society.  Now  and  then  he  dropped  a  word  that  made  her 
pulses  nutter ;  his  eyes  were  constantly  upon  her  face. 

u  Don't  you  go  off  into  the  country  sometimes  ? "  he 
inquired,  when  she  had  turned  homewards. 
"  We  are  thinking  of  having  a  drive  to-day." 
"  And  I  shall  most  likely  have  a  ride  ;  we  may  meet." 
Nancy  ordered  a  carriage  for  the  afternoon,  and  with 
her  friends  drove  up  the  Teign  valley ;  but  they  did  not 
meet  Tarrant.  But  next  morning  he  joined  them  on  the 
pier,  and  this  time  Jessica  had  no  choice  but  to  present 
him  to  her  mother.  Nancy  felt  annoyed  that  this  should 
have  come  about ;  Tarrant,  she  supposed,  would  regard 
poor  Mrs.  Morgan  with  secret  ridicule.  Yet,  if  that  were 
his  disposition,  he  concealed  it  perfectly;  110  one  could 
have  behaved  with  more  finished  courtesy.  He  seated 
himself  by  Mrs.  Morgan,  and  talked  with  her  of  the  sim- 
plest things  in  a  pleasant,  kindly  humour.  Yesterday,  so 
he  made  known,  he  had  ridden  to  Torquay  and  back,  re- 
turning after  sunset.  This  afternoon  he  was  going  by 
train  to  Exeter,  to  buy  some  books. 

Again  he  strolled  about  with  Nancy,  and  talked  of  idle 
things  with  an  almost  excessive  amiability.  As  the  girl 
listened,  a  languor  crept  upon  her,  a  soft  and  delicious 
subdual  of  the  will  to  dreamy  luxury.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  shadows  cast  by  her  own  figure  and  that  of 
her  companion. 


IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  1Q5 


NANCY  had  written  to  her  father,  a  short  letter  but 
affectionate,  begging-  him  to  let  her  know  whether  the 
improvement  in  his  health,  of  which  he  had  spoken  be- 
fore she  left  home,  still  continued.  The  answer  came 
without  delay.  On  the  whole,  said  Mr.  Lord,  he  was  doing- 
well  enough ;  no  need  whatever  to  trouble  about  him.  He 
wrote  only  a  few  lines,  but  closed  with  "  love  to  you,  my 
dear  child,"  an  unwonted  effusiveness. 

At  the  same  time  there  came  a  letter  from  Horace. 

"You  will  be  surprised,"  it  began,  "at  the  address  I 
write  from.  As  you  know,  I  had  planned  to  go  to 
Brighton ;  but  on  the  day  before  my  holiday  commenced 
I  heard  from  F.  F.,  saying  that  she  and  Mrs.  Peachey  had 
had  a  quarrel,  and  she  was  tired  of  Brighton,  and  was 
coming  home.  So  I  waited  a  day  or  two,  and  then,  as  I 
had  half  promised,  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  D.  We  had  a  long 
talk,  and  it  ended  in  my  telling  her  about  F.,  and  all  the 
row  there's  been.  Perhaps  you  will  think  I  had  better 
have  kept  it  to  myself,  but  Mrs.  D.  and  I  are  on  first-rate 
terms,  and  she  seems  to  understand  me  better  than  any 
one  I  ever  met.  We  talked  about  my  holiday,  and  she 
persuaded  me  to  come  to  Scarborough,  where  she  herself 
was  going  for  a  week  or  two.  It's  rather  an  expensive 
affair,  but  worth  the  money.  Of  course  I  have  lodgings 
of  my  own.  Mrs.  D.  is  at  a  big  hotel,  where  friends  of 
hers  are  staying.  I  have  been  introduced  to  two  or  three 
people,  great  swells,  and  I've  had  lunch  with  Mrs.  D.  at 
the  hotel  twice.  This  kind  of  life  suits  me  exactly.  I 
don't  think  I  get  on  badly  with  the  swells.  Of  course  I 
say  not  a  word  about  my  position,  and  of  course  nobody 
would  think  of  asking  questions..  You  would  like  this 
place;  I  rather  wish  you  were  here.  Of  course  father 
thinks  I  have  come  on  my  own  hook.  It's  very  awkward 
having  to  keep  a  secret  of  this  kind  ;  I  must  try  and  per- 
suade Mrs.  D.  to  have  a  talk  with  father.  But  one  thing  I 
can  .tell  you, — I  feel  pretty  sure  that  she  will  get  me, 


106  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

somehow  or  other,  out  of  that  beastly  City  life ;  she's  al- 
ways talking  of  things  I  might  do.  But  not  a  word  to 
any  one  about  all  this — be  sure." 

This  news  caused  Nancy  to  ponder  for  a  long  time. 
The  greater  part  of  the  morning  she  spent  at  home,  and  in 
her  own  room ;  after  lunch,  she  sat  idly  on  the  prome- 
nade, little  disposed  for  conversation. 

It  was  the  second  day  since  Tarrant  had  told  her  that 
he  was  going  to  Exeter,  and  they  had  not  again  met ;  the 
Morgans  had  not  seen  him  either.  The  next  morning, 
however,  as  all  three  were  sitting  in  one  of  their  favourite 
places,  Tarrant  approached  them.  Mrs.  Morgan,  who  was 
fluttered  by  the  natural  supposition  of  a  love  affair  be- 
tween Miss  Lord  and  the  interesting  young  man,  made  it 
easy  for  them  to  talk  together. 

"  Did  you  get  your  books  ? "  Nancy  asked,  when  silence 
followed  on  trivialities. 

"  Yes,  and  spent  half  a  day  with  them  in  a  favourite 
retreat  of  mine,  inland.  It's  a  very  beautiful  spot.  I 
should  like  you  to  see  it.  Indeed,  you  ought  to." 

Nancy  turned  her  eyes  to  the  sea. 

"  We  might  walk  over  there  one  afternoon,"  he 
added. 

"  Mrs.  Morgan  can't  walk  far." 

"  Why  should  we  trouble  her  ?  Are  you  obliged  to 
remain  under  Mrs.  Morgan's  wing  ? " 

It  was  said  jestingly,  but  Nancy  felt  piqued. 

"  Certainly  not.     I  am  quite  independent." 

u  So  I  should  have  supposed.     Then  why  not  come  ?  " 

He  seemed  perfectly  self-possessed,  but  the  voice  was 
not  quite  his  own.  To  Nancy,  her  eyes  still  looking 
straight  forward,  it  sounded  as  though  from  a  distance  ;  it 
had  an  effect  upon  her  nerves  similar  to  that  she  had  ex- 
perienced three  days  ago,  when  they  were  walking  about 
the  pier.  Her  hands  fell  idly;  she  leaned  back  more 
heavily  on  the  seat ;  a  weight  was  on  her  tongue. 

"A  country  ramble  of  an  hour  or  two,"  pursued  the 
voice,  which  itself  had  become  languorous.  "Surely. you 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  107 

are  sometimes  alone  ?  It  isn't  necessary  to  give  a  detailed 
account  of  your  time  ? " 

She  answered  impatiently.  "  Of  course  not."  In  this 
moment  her  thoughts  had  turned  to  Luckworth  Crewe, 
and  she  was  asking  herself  why  this  invitation  of  Tar- 
rant's  affected  her  so  very  differently  from  anything  she 
had  felt  when  Crewe  begged  her  to  meet  him  in  London. 
With  him  she  could  go  anywhere,  enjoying  a  genuine  in- 
dependence, a  complete  self-confidence,  thinking  her  un- 
conventional behaviour  merely  good  fun.  Tarrant's  pro- 
posal startled  her.  She  was  not  mistress  of  the  situation, 
as  when  trifling  with  Crewe.  A  sense  of  peril  caused  her 
heart  to  beat  quickly. 

"  This  afternoon,  then,"  the  voice  was  murmuring. 

She  answered  mechanically.  "It's  going  to  rain,  I 
think." 

"  I  think  not.    But,  if  so,  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  is  Sunday." 

"  Yes.    Monday,  then." 

Nancy  heard  him  smother  a  laugh.  She  wished  to  look 
at  him,  but  could  not. 

"  It  won't  rain,"  he  continued,  still  with  the  ease  of  one 
who  speaks  of  everyday  matters.  "  We  shall  see,  at  all 
events.  Perhaps  you  will  want  to  change  your  book  at 
the  library."  A  novel  lay  on  her  lap.  "  We'll  leave  it  an 
open  possibility — to  meet  there  about  three  o'clock." 

Nancy  pointed  out  to  sea,  and  asked  where  the  steamer 
just  passing  might  be  bound  for.  Her  companion  readily 
turned  to  this  subject. 

The  rain — she  half  hoped  for  it — did  not  come.  By 
luncheon-time  every  doubtful  cloud  had  vanished.  Be- 
fore sitting  down  to  table,  she  observed  the  sky  at  the 
open  window. 

"  Lovely  weather ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Morgan  behind  her. 
"  But  for  you,  dear  Nancy,  I  should  have  been  dreaming 
and  wishing — oh,  how  vainly  ! — in  the  stifling  town." 

"We'll  have  another  drive  this  afternoon,"  Nancy 
declared. 


108  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh,  how  delightful !  But  pray,  pray,  not  on  our  ac- 
count— 

"Jessica," — Nancy  turned  to  her  friend,  who  had  just 
entered  the  room, — "  we'll  have  the  carriage  at  three. 
And  a  better  horse  than  last  time  ;  I'll  take  good  care  of 
that.  Pen,  ink,  and  paper ! "  she  cried  joyously.  u  The 
note  shall  go  round  at  once." 

"You're  a  magnificent  sort  of  person,"  said  Jessica. 
"  Some  day,  no  doubt,  you'll  keep  a  carriage  and  pair  of 
your  own." 

"  Shan't  I,  just !  And  drive  you  down  to  Burlington 
House,  for  your  exams.  By-the-bye,  does  a  female  Bach- 
elor of  Arts  lose  her  degree  if  she  gets  married  ? " 

Nancy  was  sprightlier  than  of  late.  Her  mood  main- 
tained itself  throughout  the  first  half  of  the  drive,  then  she 
seemed  to  be  overcome  by  a  sudden  weariness,  ceased  to 
talk,  and  gave  only  a  listless  look  at  things  which  inter- 
ested her  companions.  By  when  they  reached  home 
again,  she  had  a  pale  troubled  countenance.  Until  din- 
ner nothing  more  was  seen  of  her,  and  after  the  meal  she 
soon  excused  herself  on  the  plea  of  a  headache. 

Again  there  passed  two  days,  Sunday  and  Monday, 
without  Tarrant's  appearing.  Mrs.  Morgan  and  Jessica 
privately  talked  much  of  the  circumstance.  Sentimental 
souls,  they  found  this  topic  inexhaustible ;  Jessica,  having 
her  mind  thus  drawn  away  from  Burlington  House,  bene- 
fited not  a  little  by  the  mystery  of  her  friend's  position  ; 
she  thought,  however,  that  Nancy  might  have  practised  a 
less  severe  reticence.  To  Mrs.  Morgan  it  never  occurred 
that  so  self-reliant  a  young  woman  as  Miss  Lord  stood  in 
need  of  matronly  counsel,  of  strict  chaperonage;  she 
would  have  deemed  it  an  impertinence  to  allow  herself 
the  most  innocent  remark  implying  such  a  supposition. 

On  Wednesday  afternoon,  about  three  o'clock,  Nancy 
walked  alone  to  the  library.  There,  looking  at  books  and 
photographs  in  the  window,  stood  Lionel  Tarrant.  He 
greeted  her  as  usual,  seemed  not  to  remark  the  hot  colour 
in  her  cheeks,  and  stepped  with  her  into  the  shop.  She 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  109 

had  meant  to  choose  a  novel,  but,  with  Tarrant  looking 
on,  felt  constrained  to  exhibit  her  capacity  for  severe 
reading.  The  choice  of  grave  works  was  not  large,  and 
she  found  it  difficult  to  command  her  thoughts  even  for 
the  perusal  of  titles  ;  however,  she  ultimately  discovered 
a  book  that  promised  anything  but  frivolity,  Helmholtz's 
"  Lectures  on  Scientific  Subjects,"  and  at  this  she  clutched. 

Two  loudly-dressed  women  were  at  the  same  time 
searching  the  shelves. 

u  I  wonder  whether  this  is  a  pretty  book  ? "  said  one  to 
the  other,  taking  down  a  trio  of  volumes. 

"  Oh,  it  looks  as  if  it  might  be  pretty,"  returned  her 
friend,  examining  the  cover. 

They  faced  to  the  person  behind  the  counter. 

"  Is  this  a  pretty  book  ? "  one  of  them  inquired  loftily. 

"Oh  yes,  madam,  that's  a  very  pretty  book — very 
pretty." 

Nancy  exchanged  a  glance  with  her  companion  and 
smiled.  When  they  were  outside  again  Tarrant  asked  : 

"  Have  you  found  a  pretty  book  ? " 

She  showed  the  title  of  her  choice. 

"  Merciful  heavens !  You  mean  to  read  that  ?  The 
girls  of  to-day !  What  mere  man  is  worthy  of  them  ? 
But — I  must  rise  to  the  occasion.  We'll  have  a  chapter  as 
we  rest." 

Insensibly,  Nancy  had  followed  the  direction  he  chose. 
His  words  took  for  granted  that  she  was  going  into  the 
country  with  him. 

"My  friends  are  on  the  pier,"  she  said,  abruptly 
stopping. 

k>  Where  doubtless  they  will  enjoy  themselves.  Let 
me  carry  your  book,  please.  Helmholtz  is  rather  heavy." 

"  Thanks,  I  can  carry  it  very  well.  I  shall  turn  this 
way." 

"  No,  no.     My  way  this  afternoon." 

Nancy  stood  still,  looking  up  the  street  that  led  towards 
the  sea.     She  was  still  bright-coloured ;   her  lips  had  a 
pathetic  expression,  a  child-like  pouting. 
8 


HO  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  There  was  an  understanding,"  said  Tarrant,  with 
playful  firmness. 

"  Not  for  to-day." 

"  No.  For  the  day  when  you  disappointed  me.  The 
day  after,  I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  come  here ; 
yesterday  I  came,  but  felt  no  surprise  that  I  didn't  meet 
you.  To-day  I  had  a  sort  of  hope. — This  way." 

She  followed,  and  they  walked  for  several  minutes  in 
silence. 

"  Will  you  let  me  look  at  Helmholtz  ?  "  said  the  young 
man  at  length.  "  Most  excellent  book,  of  course.  '  Physio- 
logical Causes  of  Harmony  in  Music,'  'Interaction  of 
Natural  Forces,'  k  Conservation  of  Force.' — You  enjoy  this 
kind  of  thing  ? " 

"  One  must  know  something  about  it." 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  used  to  grind  at  science  because 
everybody  talked  science.  In  reality  I  loathed  it,  and 
now  I  read  only  what  I  like.  Life's  too  short  for  intel- 
lectual make-believe.  It  is  too  short  for  anything  but 
enjoyment.  Tell  we  what  you  read  for  pure  pleasure. 
Poetry  ? " 

They  had  left  the  streets,  and  were  pursuing  a  road 
bordered  with  gardens,  gardens  of  glowing  colour,  shel- 
tered amid  great  laurels,  shadowed  by  stately  trees ;  the 
air  was  laden  with  warm  scents  of  flower  and  leaf.  On 
an  instinct  of  resistance,  Nancy  pretended  that  the  exact 
sciences  were  her  favourite  study.  She  said  it  in  the  tone 
of  superiority  which  habit  had  made  natural  to  her  in 
speaking  of  intellectual  things.  And  Tarrant  appeared  to 
accept  her  declaration  without  scepticism  ;  but,  a  moment 
after,  he  turned  the  talk  upon  novels. 

Thus,  for  half  an  hour  and  more,  they  strolled  on  by 
upward  ways,  until  Teignmouth  lay  beneath  them,  and 
the  stillness  of  meadows  all  about.  Presently  Tarrant  led 
from  the  beaten  road  into  a  lane  all  but  overgrown  with 
grass.  He  began  to  gather  flowers,  and  offered  them  to 
Nancy.  Personal  conversation  seemed  at  an  end;  they 
were  enjoying  the  brilliant  sky  and  the  peaceful  loveliness 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  HI 

of  earth.  They  exchanged  simple  natural  thoughts,  or 
idle  words  in  which  was  no  thought  at  all. 

Before  long,  they  came  to  an  old  broken  gate,  half 
open ;  it  was  the  entrance  to  a  narrow  cartway,  now  un- 
used, which  descended  windingly  between  high  thick 
hedges.  Ruts  of  a  foot  in  depth,  baked  hard  by  summer, 
showed  how  miry  the  track  must  be  in  the  season  of  rain. 

u  This  is  our  way,"  said  Tarrant,  his  hand  on  the  li- 
chened  wood.  u  Better  than  the  pier  or  the  promenade, 
don't  you  think  ? " 

"  But  we  have  gone  far  enough/' 

Nancy  drew  back  into  the  lane,  looked  at  her  flowers, 
and  then  shaded  her  eyes  with  them  to  gaze  upward. 

"  Almost.  Another  five  minutes,  and  you  will  see  the 
place  I  told  you  of.  You  can't  imagine  how  beautiful 
it  is." 

"  Another  day " 

"  We  are  all  but  there " 

He  seemed  regretfully  to  yield  ;  and  Nancy  yielded  in 
her  turn.  She  felt  a  sudden  shame  in  the  thought  of  hav- 
ing perhaps  betrayed  timidity.  Without  speaking,  she 
passed  the  gate. 

The  hedge  on  either  side  was  of  hazel  and  dwarf  oak, 
of  hawTthorn  and  blackthorn,  all  intertwined  with  giant 
brambles,  and  with  briers  which  here  and  there  met  over- 
head. High  and  low,  blackberries  hung  in  multitudes, 
swelling  to  purple  ripeness.  Numberless  the  trailing  and 
climbing  plants.  Nancy's  skirts  rustled  among  the  green- 
ery ;  her  cheeks  were  touched,  as  if  with  a  caress,  by  many 
a  drooping  branchlet ;  in  places,  Tarrant  had  to  hold  the 
tangle  above  her  while  she  stooped  to  pass. 

And  from  this  they  emerged  into  a  small  circular  space, 
where  the  cartway  made  a  turn  at  right  angles  and  disap- 
peared behind  thickets.  They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  plan- 
tation ;  on  every  side  trees  closed  about  them,  with  a  low 
and  irregular  hedge  to  mark  the  borders  of  the  grassy 
road.  Nancy's  eyes  fell  .at  once  upon  a  cluster  of  magnifi- 
cent foxgloves,  growing  upon  a  bank  which  rose  to  the 


112  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

foot  of  an  old  elm  ;  beside  the  foxgloves  lay  a  short-hewn 
trunk,  bedded  in  the  ground,  thickly  overgrown  with 
mosses,  lichens,  and  small  fungi. 

"  Have  I  misled  you  ? "  said  Tarrant,  watching  her  face 
with  frank  pleasure. 

"  No,  indeed  you  haven't.     This  is  very  beautiful ! " 

u  I  discovered  it  last  year,  and  spent  hours  here  alone. 
I  couldn't  ask  you  to  come  and  see  it  then,"  he  added, 
laughing. 

"  It  is  delightful ! " 

"  Here's  your  seat, — who  knows  how  many  years  it  has 
waited  for  you  ? " 

She  sat  down  upon  the  old  trunk.  About  the  roots  of 
the  elm  above  grew  masses  of  fern,  and  beneath  it  a  rough 
bit  of  the  bank  was  clothed  with  pennywort,  the  green 
discs  and  yellowing  fruity  spires  making  an  exquisite 
patch  of  colour.  In  the  shadow  of  bushes  near  at  hand 
hartstongue  abounded,  with  fronds  hanging  to  the  length 
of  an  arm. 

"Now,"  said  Tarrant,  gaily,  "you  shall  have  some 
blackberries."  And  he  went  to  gather  them,  returning  in 
a  few  minutes  with  a  large  leaf  full.  He  saw  that  Nancy, 
meanwhile,  had  taken  up  the  book  from  where  he  dropped 
it  to  the  ground  ;  it  lay  open  on  her  lap. 

"  Helmholtz  !    Away  with  him  !  " 

"  No ;  I  have  opened  at  something  interesting." 

She  spoke  as  though  possession  of  the  book  were  of 
vital  importance  to  her.  Nevertheless,  the  fruit  was  ac- 
cepted, and  she  drew  off  her  gloves  to  eat  it.  Tarrant 
seated  himself  on  the  ground,  near  her,  and  gradually  fell 
into  a  half -recumbent  attitude. 

"  Won't  you  have  any  ? "  Nancy  asked,  without  look- 
ing at  him. 

"  One  or  two,  if  you  will  give  me  them." 

She  chose  a  fine  blackberry,  and  held  it  out.  Tarrant 
let  it  fall  into  his  palm,  and  murmured,  "You  have  a 
beautiful  hand."  When,  a  moment  after,  he  glanced  at 
her,  she  seemed  to  be  reading  Helmholtz. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  113 

The  calm  of  the  golden  afternoon  could  not  have  been 
more  profound.  Birds  twittered  softly  in  the  wood,  and 
if  a  leaf  rustled,  it  was  only  at  the  touch  of  wings.  Earth 
breathed  its  many  perfumes  upon  the  slumberous  air. 

"  You  know,"  said  Tarrant,  after  a  long  pause,  and 
speaking  as  though  he  feared  to  break  the  hush,  u  that 
Keats  once  stayed  at  Teignmouth." 

Nancy  did  not  know  it,  but  said  "  Yes."  The  name  of 
Keats  was  familiar  to  her,  but  of  his  life  she  knew  hardly 
anything,  of  his  poetry  very  little.  Her  education  had 
been  chiefly  concerned  with  names. 

'"  Will  you  read  me  a  paragraph  of  Helmholtz  ? "  con- 
tinued the  other,  looking  at  her  with  a  smile.  "  Any  para- 
graph, the  one  before  you." 

She  hesitated,  but  read  at  length,  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
something  about  the  Conservation  of  Force.  It  ended  in 
a  nervous  laugh. 

"  Now  I'll  read  something  to  you,"  said  Tarrant.  And 
he  began  to  repeat,  slowly,  musically,  lines  of  verse  which 
his  companion  had  never  heard  : 

"  0  what  can  ail  thee,  Knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  f 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing." 

He  went  through  the  poem  ;  Nancy  the  while  did  not 
stir.  It  was  as  though  he  murmured  melody  for  his  own 
pleasure,  rather  than  recited  to  a  listener;  but  no  word 
was  inaudible.  Nancy  knew  that  his  eyes  rested  upon 
her;  she  wished  to  smile,  yet  could  not.  And  when  he 
ceased,  the  silence  held  her  motionless. 

"  Isn't  it  better  ? "  said  Tarrant,  drawing  slightly  nearer 
to  her. 

"  Of  course  it  is." 

u  I  used  to  know  thousands  of  verses  by  heart." 

"  Did  you  ever  write  any  ? " 

"  Half-a-dozen  epics  or  so,  when  I  was  about  seventeen. 
Yet,  I  don't  come  of  a  poetical  family.  My  father " 


114  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

He  stopped  abruptly,  looked  into  Nancy's  face  with  a 
smile,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  playfulness : 

"Do  you  remember  asking  me  whether  I  had  anything 
to  do  with— 

Nancy,  flushing  over  all  her  features,  exclaimed, 
"  Don't !  please  don't  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  !  " 

"  I  didn't  like  it.  But  we  know  each  other  better  now. 
You  were  quite  right.  That  was  how  my  grandfather 
made  his  money.  My  father,  I  believe,  got  through  most 
of  it,  and  gave  no  particular  thought  to  me.  His  mother 
— the  old  lady  whom  you  know — had  plenty  of  her  own — 
to  be  mine,  she  tells  me,  some  day.  Do  you  wish  to  be 
forgiven  for  hurting  my  pride  ? "  he  added. 

"  I  don't  know  what  made  me  say  such  a  thing " 

She  faltered  the  words ;  she  felt  her  will  subdued.  Tar- 
rant  reached  a  hand,  and  took  one  of  hers,  and  kissed  it ; 
then  allowed  her  to  draw  it  away. 

"  Now  will  you  give  me  another  blackberry  ? " 

The  girl  was  trembling;  a  light  shone  in  her  eyes. 
She  offered  the  leaf  with  fruit  in  it;  Tarrant,  whilst 
choosing,  touched  the  blue  veins  of  her  wrist  with  his 
lips. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  she  asked  presently. 
"  I  mean,  what  do  you  aim  at  in  life  ? " 

"Enjoyment.  Why  should  I  trouble  about  anything 
else  ?  I  should  be  content  if  life  were  all  like  this :  to 
look  at  a  beautiful  face,  and  listen  to  a  voice  that  charms 
me,  and  touch  a  hand  that  makes  me  thrill  with  such 
pleasure  as  I  never  knew." 

"  It's  waste  of  time." 

"  Oh,  never  time  was  spent  so  well !  Look  at  me  again 
like  that — with  the  eyes  half-closed,  and  the  lips  half- 
mocking.  Oh,  the  exquisite  lips !  If  I  might — if  I 
might " 

He  did  not  stir  from  his  posture  of  languid  ease,  but 
Nancy,  with  a  quick  movement,  drew  a  little  away  from 
him,  then  rose. 

"  It's  time  to  go  back,"  she  said  absently. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  H5 

"  No,  no ;  not  yet.  Let  me  look  at  you  for  a  few  min- 
utes more ! " 

She  began  to  walk  slowly,  head  bent. 

"Well  then,  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after.  The  place 
will  be  just  as  beautiful,  and  you  even  more.  The  sea-air 
makes  you  lovelier  from  day  to  day." 

Nancy  looked  back  for  an  instant.  Tarrant  followed, 
and  in  the  deep  leafy  way  he  again  helped  her  to  pass  the 
briers.  But  their  hands  never  touched,  and  the  silence 
was  unbroken  until  they  had  issued  into  the  open  lane. 


VI 

THE  lodgings  were  taken  for  three  weeks,  and  more 
than  half  the  time  had  now  elapsed. 

Jessica,  who  declared  herself  quite  well  and  strong 
again,  though  her  face  did  not  bear  out  the  assertion,  was 
beginning  to  talk  of  matters  examinational  once  more. 
Notwithstanding  protests,  she  brought  forth  from  their 
hiding-place  sundry  arid  little  manuals  and  black-covered 
note-books ;  her  thoughts  were  divided  between  algebraic 
formulas  and  Nancy's  relations  with  Lionel  Tarrant.  Per- 
haps because  no  secret  was  confided  to  her,  she  affected 
more  appetite  for  the  arid  little  books  than  she  really  felt. 
Nancy  would  neither  speak  of  examinations,  nor  give  ear 
when  they  were  talked  about;  she,  whether  consciously 
or  not,  was  making  haste  to  graduate  in  quite  another 
school. 

On  the  morning  after  her  long  walk  with  Tarrant,  she 
woke  before  sunrise,  and  before  seven  o'clock  had  left  the 
house.  A  high  wind  and  hurrying  clouds  made  the 
weather  prospects  uncertain.  She  strayed  about  the  Den, 
never  losing  sight  for  more  than  a  minute  or  two  of  the 
sea-fronting  house  where  Tarrant  lived.  But  no  familiar 
form  approached  her,  and  she  had  to  return  to  breakfast 
unrewarded  for  early  rising. 

Through  the  day  she  was  restless  .and  silent,  kept  alone 


116  IK  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

as  much  as  possible,  and  wore  a  look  which,  as  the  hours 
went  on,  darkened  from  anxiety  to  ill-humour.  She  went 
to  bed  much  earlier  than  usual. 

At  eleven  next  morning,  having  lingered  behind  her 
friends,  she  found  Tarrant  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Mor- 
gan ^,nd  Jessica  on  the  pier.  His  greeting  astonished  her ; 
it  had  precisely  the  gracious  formality  of  a  year  ago ;  a 
word  or  two  about  the  weather,  and  he  resumed  his  talk 
with  Miss  Morgan — its  subject,  the  educational  value  of 
the  classics.  Obliged  to  listen,  Nancy  suffered  an  anguish 
of  resentful  passion.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  kept 
silence,  then  saw  the  young  man  take  leave  and  saunter 
away  with  that  air  which,  in  satire,  she  had  formerly 
styled  majestic. 

And  then  passed  three  whole  days,  during  which  Lio- 
nel was  not  seen. 

The  evening  of  the  fourth,  between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock,  found  Nancy  at  the  door  of  the  house  which  her 
thoughts  had  a  thousand  times  visited.  A  servant,  in  re- 
ply to  inquiry,  told  her  that  Mr.  Tarrant  was  in  London ; 
he  would  probably  return  to-morrow. 

She  walked  idly  away — and,  at  less  than  a  hundred 
yards'  distance,  met  Tarrant  himself.  His  costume  showed 
that  he  had  just  come  from  the  railway  station.  Nancy 
would  gladly  have  walked  straight  past  him,  but  the  tone 
in  which  he  addressed  her  was  a  new  surprise,  and  she 
stood  in  helpless  confusion.  He  had  been  to  London — 
called  away  on  sudden  business. 

"  I  thought  of  writing — nay,  I  did  write,  but  after  all 
didn't  post  the  letter.  For  a  very  simple  reason  —  I 
couldn't  remember  your  address." 

And  he  laughed  so  naturally,  that  the  captive  walked 
on  by  his  side,  unresisting.  Their  conversation  lasted  only 
a  few  minutes,  then  Nancy  resolutely  bade  him  good-night, 
no  appointment  made  for  the  morrow. 

A  day  of  showers,  then  a  day  of  excessive  heat.  They 
saw  each  other  several  times,  but  nothing  of  moment 
passed.  The  morning  after  they  met  before  breakfast. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  H7 

u  To-morrow  is  our  last  day,'1  said  Nancy. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Morgan  told  me."  Nancy  herself  had  never 
spoken  of  departure.  "  This  afternoon  well  go  up  the  hill 
again." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  care  to  walk  so  far.  Look  at  the 
mist ;  it's  going  to  be  dreadfully  hot  again." 

Tarrant  was  in  a  mood  of  careless  gaiety ;  his  compan- 
ion appeared  to  struggle  against  listlessness,  and  her  cheek 
had  lost  its  wonted  colour. 

44  You  have  tea  at  four  or  five,  I  suppose.  Let  us  go 
after  that,  when  the  heat  of  the  day  is  over." 

To  this,  after  various  objections,  Nancy  consented. 
Through  the  hours  of  glaring  sunshine  she  stayed  at  home, 
lying  inert,  by  an  open  window.  Over  the  tea-cups  she 
was  amiable,  but  dreamy.  When  ready  to  go  out,  she 
just  looked  into  the  sitting-room,  where  Jessica  bent  over 
books,  and  said  cheerfully : 

44  I  may  be  a  little  late  for  dinner.  On  no  account  wait 
-I  forbid  it ! " 

And  so,  without  listening  to  the  answer,  she  hurried 
away.  - 

In  the  upward  climbing  lanes,  no  breeze  yet  tempered 
the  still  air ;  the  sky  of  misted  sapphire  showed  not  a  cloud 
from  verge  to  verge.  Tarrant,  as  if  to  make  up  for  his 
companion's  silence,  talked  ceaselessly,  and  always  in  light 
vein.  Sunshine,  he  said,  was  indispensable  -to  his  life  ;  he 
never  passed  the  winter  in  London ;  if  he  were  the  poorest 
of  mortals,  he  would,  at  all  events,  beg  his  bread  in  a 
sunny  clime. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  Bahamas  this  winter  ? "  Nancy 
asked,  mentioning  the  matter  for  the  first  time  since  she 
heard  of  it  at  Champion  Hill. 

41 1  don't  know.     Everything  is  uncertain." 

And  he  put  the  question  aside  as  if  it  were  of  no  impor- 
tance. 

They  passed  the  old  gate,  and  breathed  with  relief  in 
the  never-broken  shadow  of  tangled  foliage.  Whilst  push- 
ing a  bramble  aside,  Tarrant  let  his  free  arm  fall  lightly 


118  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

on  Nancy's  waist.     At  once  she  sprang  forward,  but  with- 
out appearing  to  notice  what  had  happened. 
"  Stay — did  you  ever  see  such  ivy  as  this  ? " 
It  was  a  mass  of  large,  lustrous  leaves,  concealing  a 
rotten  trunk.     Whilst  Nancy  looked  on,  Tarrant  pulled  at 
a  long  stem,  and  tried  to  break  it  away. 

"  I  must  cut  it." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  You  shall  see.11 

He  wove  three  stems  into  a  wreath. 

"  There  now,  take  off  your  hat,  and  let  me  crown  you. 
Have  I  made  it  too  large  for  the  little  head  ? " 

Nancy,  after  a  moment's  reluctance,  unfastened  her 
hat,  and  stood  bareheaded,  blushing  and  laughing. 

"  You  do  your  hair  in  the  right  way — the  Greek  way. 
A  diadem  on  the  top — the  only  wray  when  the  hair  and  the 
head  are  beautiful.  It  leaves  the  outline  free — the  exquis- 
ite curve  that  unites  neck  and  head.  Now  the  ivy  wreath ; 
and  how  will  you  look  ? " 

She  wrore  a  dress  of  thin,  creamy  material,  which, 
whilst  seeming  to  cumber  her  as  little  as  garments  could, 
yet  fitted  closely  enough  to  declare  the  healthy  beauty  of 
her  form.  The  dark  green  garland,  for  which  she  bent  a 
little,  became  her  admirably. 

"I  pictured  it  in  my  letter,11  said  Tarrant,  "the  letter 
you  never  got." 

"  Where  is  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  burnt  it." 

"  Tell  me  what  was  in  it." 

"All  sorts  of  things — a  long  letter." 

"I  think  that's  all  nonsense  about  forgetting  my.  ad- 
dress." 

"  Mere  truth.     In  fact,  I  never  knew  it." 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me,"  she  spoke  as  she  walked  on 
before  him,  "what  you  meant  by  your  behaviour  that 
morning  before  you  went  to  London." 

"  But  how  did  I  behave  ? " 

"  Very  strangely." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  H9 

Tarrant  affected  not  to  understand ;  but  when  she 
again  turned,  Nancy  saw  a  mischievous  smile  on  his  face. 

"  A  bit  of  nonsense. — Shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  He  stepped 
near,  and  suddenly  caught  both  her  hands, — one  of  them 
was  trailing  her  sunshade.  "  Forgive  me  in  advance — will 
you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that."  And  she  tried,  though 
faintly,  to  get  free. 

"  But  I  will  make  you — now,  refuse  ! " 

His  lips  had  just  touched  hers,  just  touched  and  no 
more.  Rosy  red,  she  trembled  before  him  with  drooping 
eyelids. 

"  It  meant  nothing  at  all,  really,1'  he  pursued,  his  voice 
at  its  softest.  "  A  sham  trial — to  see  whether  I  was  hope- 
lessly conquered  or  not.  Of  course  I  was." 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"  You  dare  to  doubt  it  ? — I  understand  now  what  the 
old  poet  meant,  when  he  talked  of  bees  seeking  honey 
on  his  lady's  lips.  That  fancy  isn't  so  artificial  as  it 
seemed." 

"That's  all  very  pretty" — she  spoke  between  quick 
breaths,  and  tried  to  laugh — "  but  you  have  thrown  my 
hat  on  the  ground.  Give  it  me,  and  take  the  ivy  for  your- 
self." 

"I  am  no  Bacchus."  He  tossed  the  wreath  aside. 
"  Take  the  hat ;  I  like  you  in  it  just  as  well. — You  shall 
have  a  girdle  of  woodbine,  instead." 

"  I  don't  believe  your  explanation,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Not  believe  me  ? " 

With  feigned  indignation,  he  moved  to  capture  her 
again ;  but  Nancy  escaped.  Her  hat  in  her  hand,  she 
darted  forward.  A  minute's  run  brought  her  into  the  open 
space,  and  there,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  she 
stopped.  Tarrant,  but  a  step  or  two  behind  her,  saw  at 
almost  the  same  moment  the  spectacle  which  had  arrested 
her  night.  Before  them  stood  two  little  donkeys  munch- 
ing eagerly  at  a  crop  of  rosy-headed  thistles.  They— the 
human  beings— looked  at  each  other;  Tarrant  burst  into 


120  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

extravagant  laughter,  and  Nancy  joined  him.  Neither's 
mirth  was  spontaneous ;  Nancy's  had  a  note  of  nervous 
tension,  a  ring  of  something  like  recklessness. 

"  Where  can  they  come  from  ? "  'she  asked. 

"  They  must  have  strayed  a  long  way.  I  haven't  seen 
any  farm  or  cottage. — But  perhaps  some  one  is  with  them. 
Wait,  I'll  go  on  a  little,  and  see  if  some  boy  is  hanging 
about." 

He  turned  the  sharp  corner,  and  disappeared.  For  two 
or  three  minutes  Nancy  stood  alone,  watching  the  patient 
little  grey  beasts,  whose  pendent  ears,  with  many  a  turn 
and  twitch,  expressed  their  joy  in  the  feast  of  thistles. 
She  watched  them  in  seeming  only;  her  eyes  beheld 
nothing. 

A  voice  sounded  from  behind  her  —  u  Nancy  !  " 
Startled,  she  saw  Tarrant  standing  high  up,  in  a  gap  of 
the  hedge,  on  the  bank  which  bordered  the  wood. 

"  How  did  you  get  there  ? " 

"Went  round."  He  showed  the  direction  with  his 
hand.  u  I  can  see  no  one,  but  somebody  may  come.  It's 
wonderful  here,  among  the  trees.  Come  over." 

"  How  can  I  ? — We  will  drive  the  donkeys  away." 

"  No ;  it's  much  better  here  ;  a  wild  wood,  full  of  won- 
derful things.  The  bank  isn't  too  steep.  Give  me  your 
hand,  and  you  can  step  up  easily,  just  at  this  place." 

She  drew  near. 

"  Your  sunshade  first." 

"  Oh,  it's  too  much  trouble,"  she  said  languidly,  all  but 
plaintively.  "  I'd  rather  be  here." 

"  Obey  ! — your  sunshade " 

She  gave  it. 

"  Now,  your  hand." 

He  was  kneeling  on  the  top  of  the  bank.  With  very 
little  exertion,  Nancy  found  herself  beside  him.  Then  he 
at  once  leapt  down  among  the  brushwood,  a  descent  of 
some  three  feet. 

"  We  shall  be  trespassing,"  said  Nancy. 

"  What  do  I  care  ?    Now,  jump ! " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  121 

"  As  if  you  could  catch  me  ! "  Again  she  uttered  her 
nervous  laugh.  "  I  am  heavy." 

"  Obey !    Jump  ! "  he  cried  impatiently. 

She  knelt,  seated  herself,  dropped  forward.  Tarrant 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

uYou  heavy!  a  feather  weight!  Why,  I  can  carry 
you  ;  I  could  run  with  you." 

And  they  went  on  among  the  trees. 

At  dinner-time,  Mrs.  Morgan  and  her  daughter  were 
alone.  They  agreed  to  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  sat 
silent,  pretending  eacli  to  be  engaged  with  a  book.  At 
length  their  eyes  met. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Jessica  ? "  asked  the  mother 
timidly. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  It  doesn't  concern  us.  She 
didn't  mean  to  be  back,  by  what  she  said." 

"  But— isn't  it  rather ? " 

"  Oh,  Nancy  is  all  right.  I  suppose  she'll  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  to-night  or  to-morrow.  We  must  have 
dinner ;  I'm.  hungry." 

"  So  am  I,  dear. — Oh,  I'm  quite  afraid  to  think  of  the 
appetites  we're  taking  back.  Poor  Milly  will  be  terrified." 

Eight  o'clock,  nine  o'clock.  The  two  conversed  in  sub- 
dued voices  ;  Mrs.  Morgan  was  anxious,  all  but  distressed. 
Half-past  nine.  "  What  can  it  mean,  Jessica  ?  I  can't 
help  feeling  a  responsibility.  After  all,  Nancy  is  quite  a 
young  girl ;  and  I've  sometimes  thought  she  might  be 
steadier." 

"  Hush  !    That  was  a  knock." 

They  waited.  In  a  minute  or  two  the  door  was  opened 
a  few  inches,  and  a  voice  called  "  Jessica  !  " 

She  responded.     Nancy  was  standing  in  the  gloom. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  she  said  curtly. 

Arrived  there,  she  did  not  strike  a  light.  She  closed 
the  door,  and  took  hold  of  her  friend's  arm. 

"  We  can't  go  back  the  day  after  to-morrow,  Jessica. 
We  must  wait  a  day  longer,  till  the  afternoon  of  Friday." 


122  IN  THE   YEAH  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Why  ?    What's  the  matter,  Nancy  ? " 

"  Nothing  serious.  Don't  be  frightened,  I'm  tired,  and 
I  shall  go  to  bed." 

"  But  why  must  we  wait  ? " 

"  Listen  :  will  you  promise  me  faithfully — as  friend  to 
friend,  faithfully — not  to  tell  the  reason  even  to  your 
mother  ? " 

"I  will,  faithfully." 

"  Then,  it's  this.  On  Friday  morning  I  shall  be  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  Tarrant." 

u  Gracious ! " 

"  I  may  tell  you  more,  before  then ;  but  perhaps  not. 
We  shall  be  married  by  licence,  and  it  needs  one  day  be- 
tween getting  the  licence  and  the  marriage.  You  may  tell 
your  mother,  if  you  like,  that  I  want  to  stay  longer  on 
his  account.  I  don't  care ;  of  course  she  suspects  some- 
thing. But  not  a  syllable  to  hint  at  the  truth.  I  have 
been  your  best  friend  for  a  long  time,  and  I  trust  you." 

She  spoke  in  a  passionate  whisper,  and  Jessica  felt  her 
trembling. 

"You  needn't  have  the  least  fear  of  me,  dear." 

"  I  believe  it.     Kiss  me,  and  good-night !  " 


PART  THE   THIRD— INTO  BONDAGE. 


DURING  his  daughter's  absence,  Stephen  Lor.d  led  a 
miserable  life.  The  wasting  disease  had  firm  hold  upon 
him ;  day  by  day  it  consumed  his  flesh,  darkened  his 
mind.  The  more  need  he  had  of  nursing  and  restraint, 
the  less  could  he  tolerate  interference  with  his  habits,  in- 
vasion of  his  gloomy  solitude.  The  doctor's  visits  availed 
nothing;  he  listened  to  advice,  or  seemed  to  listen,  but 
with  a  smile  of  obstinate  suspicion  on  his  furrowed  face 
which  conveyed  too  plain  a  meaning  to  the  adviser. 

On  one  point  Mary  had  prevailed  with  him.  After 
some  days'  resistance,  he  allowed  her  to  transform  the 
cabin-like  arrangements  of  his  room,  and  give  it  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  comfortable  bed-chamber.  But  he  wrould 
not  take  to  his  bed,  and  the  suggestion  of  professional 
nursing  excited  his  wrath. 

"  Do  you  write  to  Nancy  ? "  he  asked  one  morning  of 
his  faithful  attendant,  with  scowling  suspicion. 
"No." 

"  You  are  telling  me  the  truth  ? " 
"  I  never  write  to  any  one." 

"  Understand  plainly  that  I  won't  have  a  word  said  to 
her  about  me." 

This  was  when  Horace  had  gone  away  to  Scarborough, 
believing,  on  his  father's  assurance,  that  there  was  no 
ground  whatever  for  anxiety.  Sometimes  Mr.  Lord  sat 
hour  after  hour  in  an  unchanging  position,  his  dull  eyes 
scarcely  moving  from  one  point.  At  others  he  paced  his 

123 


IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

room,  or  wandered  about  the  house,  or  made  an  attempt  at 
gardening — which  soon  ended  in  pain  and  exhaustion. 
Towards  night  he  became  feverish,  his  hollow  checks 
glowing  with  an  ominous  tint.  In  the  morning  he  occa- 
sionally prepared  himself  as  if  to  start  for  his  place  of 
business ;  he  left  the  house,  and  walked  for  perhaps  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards,  then  slackened  his  pace,  stopped, 
looked  about  him  in  an  agony  of  indecision,  and  at  length 
returned.  After  this  futile  endeavour,  he  had  recourse  to 
the  bottles  in  his  cupboard,  and  presently  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week,  early  one  evening,  three 
persons  came  to  him  by  appointment :  his  partner  Samuel 
Barmby,  Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  and  a  well-dressed  gentle- 
man whom  Mary — she  opened  the  door  to  them — had 
never  seen  before.  They  sat  together  in  the  drawing-room 
for  more  than  an  hour ;  then  the  well-dressed  gentleman 
took  his  leave,  the  others  remaining  for  some  time  longer. 

The  promoted  servant,  at  Mr.  Lord's  bidding,  had  made 
a  change  in  her  dress ;  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day 
she  presented  the  appearance  of  a  gentlewoman,  and  sat, 
generally  with  needlework,  sometimes  with  a  book,  alone 
in  the  dining-room.  On  a  Sunday,  whilst  Nancy  and  her 
brother  were  away,  the  Barmby  family — father,  son,  and 
two  daughters — came  to  take  tea  and  spend  the  evening, 
Mary  doing  the  honours  of  the  house ;  she  bore  herself 
without  awkwardness,  talked  simply,  and  altogether  justi- 
fied Mr.  Lord's  opinion  of  her.  When  the  guests  were 
gone,  Stephen  made  no  remark,  but,  in  saying  good-night 
to  her,  smiled  for  an  instant — the  first  smile  seen  upon  his 
face  for  many  days. 

Mary  remained  ignorant  of  the  disease  from  which  he 
was  suffering ;  in  the  matter  of  his  diet,  she  consulted  and 
obeyed  him,  though  often  enough  it  seemed  to  her  that  his 
choice  suited  little  with  the  state  of  an  invalid.  He  ate  at  ir- 
regular times,  and  frequently  like  a  starving  man.  Mary 
suspected  that,  on  the  occasions  when  he  went  out  for  half- 
an-hour  after  dark,  he  brought  back  food  with  him :  she 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  125 

had  seen  him  enter  with  something-  concealed  beneatli  his 
coat.  All  his  doings  were  to  her  a  subject  of  ceaseless 
anxiety,  of  a  profound  distress  which,  in  his  presence,  she 
was  obliged  to  conceal.  If  she  regarded  him  sadly,  the 
sufferer  grew  petulant  or  irate.  He  would  not  endure  a 
question  concerning  his  health. 

On  the  day  which  was  understood  to  be  Nancy's  last  at 
Teignmouth,  he  brightened  a  little,  and  talked  with  pleas- 
ure, as  it  seemed,  of  her  return  on  the  morrow.  Horace 
had  written  that  he  would  be  home  this  evening,  but  Mr. 
Lord  spoke  only  of  his  daughter.  At  about  six  o'clock  he 
was  sitting  in  the  garden,  and  Mary  brought  him  a 
letter  just  delivered ;  he  looked  at  the  envelope  with  a 
smile. 

"  To  tell  us  the  train  she's  coming  by,  no  doubt." 

Mary  waited.  When  Mr.  Lord  had  read  the  brief  note, 
his  face  darkened,  first  with  disappointment,  then  with 
anger. 

"  Here,  look  at  it,"  he  said  harshly.  "  What  else  was  to 
be  expected  ? " 

"Dearest  Father,"  wrote  Nancy,  "I  am  sorry  that  our 
return  must  be  put  off;  we  hope  to  get  back  on  Friday 
evening.  Of  course  this  will  make  no  difference  to  you. 
—With  best  love,  dear  father,  and  hoping  I  shall  find  you 
much  better — 

"  What  does  she  mean  by  behaving  in  this  way  ?"  re- 
sumed the  angry  voice,  before  Mary  had  read  to  the  end. 
"  What  does  she  mean  by  it  ?  Who  gave  her  leave  to  stay 
longer  ?  Not  a  word  of  explanation.  How  does  she  know 
it  will  make  no  difference  to  me  ?  What  does  she  mean 
by  it?" 

"The  fine  weather  has  tempted  them,"  replied  Mary. 
"  I  daresay  they  want  to  go  somewhere." 

"  What  right  has  she  to  make  the  change  at  a  moment's 
notice  ? "  vociferated  the  father,  his  voice  suddenly  recov- 
ering its  old  power,  his  cheeks  and  neck  suffused  with  red 
wrath.  "  And  hopes  she  will  find  me  better.  What  does 
she  care  whether  she  finds  me  alive  or  dead  ? " 


126  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  You  wouldn't  let  her  know  that 
you  were  worse." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  I  hate  this  deceitful  behaviour ! 
She  knew  before,  of  course  she  knew ;  and  she  left  it  to 
the  last  moment,  so  that  I  couldn't  write  and  prevent  her 
from  staying.  As  if  I  should  have  wished  to!  As  if  I 
cared  a  brass  farthing  how  long  she  stays,  or,  for  that 
matter,  whether  I  ever  see  her  again  !  " 

He  checked  the  course  of  his  furious  speech,  and  stood 
staring  at  the  letter. 

"  What  did  you  say  ? "  He  spoke  now  in  a  hoarse 
undertone.  "  You  thought  they  were  going  somewhere  ? " 

"  Last  year  there  used  to  be  steamers  that  went  to  places 
on  certain  days " 

"Nonsense!  She  wouldn't  alter  all  their  plans  for 
that.  It's  something  I  am  not  to  know — of  course  it  is. 
She's  deceitful— like  all  women." 

He  met  Mary's  eye,  suddenly  turned  upon  him.  His 
own  fell  before  it,  and  without  speaking  again  he  went 
into  the  house. 

In  half-an-hour's  time  his  bell  rang,  and  not  Mary,  but 
the  young  servant  responded.  According  to  her  direc- 
tions, she  knocked  at  the  door,  and,  without  opening  it, 
asked  her  master's  pleasure.  Mr.  Lord  said  that  he  was 
going  out,  and  would  not  require  a  meal  till  late  in  the 
evening. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  he  returned.  Mary, 
sitting  in  the  front  room,  rose  at  his  entrance. 

"  I  want  nothing,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  to  the  Barm- 
bys'."  Voice  and  movements  proved  how  the  effort  had 
taxed  him.  In  sitting  down,  he  trembled;  fever  was  in 
his  eyes,  and  pain  in  every  line  of  his  countenance. 

Mary  handed  him  a  letter ;  it  came  from  Horace,  and 
was  an  intimation  that  the  young  gentleman  would  not 
return  to-night,  but  to-morrow.  When  Mr.  Lord  had  read 
it,  he  jerked  a  contemptuous  laugh,  and  threw  the  sheet  of 
note-paper  across  the  table. 

"  There  you  are.    Not  much  to  choose  between  daughter 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  127 

and  son.  He's  due  at  business  in  the  morning ;  but  what 
does  that  matter  ?  It  doesn't  suit  his  lordship  to  keep 
time." 

He  laughed  again,  his  emphasis  on  "  lordship  "  show- 
ing that  he  consciously  played  with  the  family  name. 

"  But  I  was  a  fool  to  be  angry.  Let  them  come  when 
they  will." 

For  a  few  minutes  he  lay  back  in  the  chair,  gazing  at 
vacancy. 

"  Has  the  girl  gone  to  bed  ? " 

"I'll  tell  her  she  can  go." 

Mary  soon  returned,  and  took  up  the  book  with  which 
she' had  been  engaged.  In  a  low  voice,  and  as  if  speaking 
without  much  thought,  Stephen  asked  her  what  she  was 
reading.  It  was  a  volume  of  an  old  magazine,  bought  by 
Mr.  Lord  many  years  ago. 

uYes,  yes.  Nancy  laughs  at  it — calls  it  old  rubbish. 
These  young  people  are  so  clever." 

His  companion  made  no  remark.  Unobserved,  he 
scrutinised  her  face  for  a  long  time,  and  said  at  length  : 

"  Don't  let  us  fall  out,  Mary.  You're  not  pleased  with 
me,  and  I  know  why.  I  said  all  women  were  deceitful, 
and  you  took  it  too  seriously.  You  ought  to  know  me 
better.  There's  something  comes  on  me  every  now  and 
then,  and  makes  me  say  the  worst  I  can — no  matter 
who  it  hurts.  Could  I  be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  ill  of 
you  1 " 

"  It  did  hurt  me,"  replied  the  other,  still  bent  over  her 
book.  "  But  it  was  only  the  sound  of  it.  I  knew  you  said 
more  than  you  meant." 

"  I'm  a  fool,  and  I've  been  a  fool  all  my  life.  Is  it 
likely  I  should  have  wise  children  ?  When  I  went  off  to 
the  Barmbys',  I  thought  of  sending  Samuel  down  to 
Teignmouth,  to  find  out  what  they  were  at.  But  I  altered 
my  mind  before  I  got  there.  What  good  would  it  have 
done  ?  All  I  can  do  I've  done  already.  I  made  my  will 
the  other  day ;  it's  signed  and  witnessed.  I've  made  it  as 
I  told  you  I  should.  I'm  not  much  longer  for  this  world, 


128  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

but  I've  saved  the  girl  from  foolishness  till  she's  six-aiid- 
twenty.  After  that  she  must  take  care  of  herself." 

They  sat  silent  whilst  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
ticked  away  a  few  more  minutes.  Mr.  Lord's  features 
betrayed  the  working  of  turbid  thought,  a  stern  resent- 
ment their  prevailing  expression.  When  reverie  released 
him,  he  again  looked  at  his  companion. 

"  Mary,  did  you  ever  ask  yourself  what  sort  of  woman 
Nancy's  mother  may  have  been  ? " 

The  listener  started,  like  one  in  whom  a  secret  has  been 
surprised.  She  tried  to  answer,  but  after  all  did  not  speak. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  Stephen  pursued.  "Yes,  I'll  tell  you. 
You  must  know  it.  Not  a  year  after  the  boy's  birth,  she 
left  me.  And  I  made  myself  free  of  her — I  divorced 
her." 

Their  eyes  just  met. 

"  You  needn't  think  that  it  cost  me  any  suffering.  Not 
on  her  account ;  not  because  I  had  lost  my  wife.  I  never 
felt  so  glad,  before  or  since,  as  on  the  day  when  it  was  all 
over,  and  I  found  myself  a  free  man  again.  I  suffered 
only  in  thinking  how  I  had  fooled  away  some  of  the  best 
years  of  my  life  for  a  woman  who  despised  me  from  the 
first,  and  was  as  heartless  as  the  stones  of  the  street.  I 
found  her  in  beggary,  or  close  upon  it.  I  made  myself 
her  slave — it's  only  the  worthless  women  who  accept  from 
a  man,  who  expect  from  him,  such  slavish  worship  as  she 
had  from  me.  I  gave  her  clothing ;  she  scarcely  thanked 
me,  but  I  thought  myself  happy.  I  gave  her  a  comfort- 
able home,  such  as  she  hadn't  known  for  years;  for  a 
reward  she  mocked  at  my  plain  tastes  and  quiet  ways — 
but  I  thought  110  ill  of  it — could  see  nothing  in  it  but  a 
girlish,  light-hearted  sort  of  way  that  seemed  one  of  her 
merits.  As  long  as  we  lived  together,  she  pretended  to  be 
an  affectionate  wife ;  I  should  think  no  one  ever  matched 
her  in  hypocrisy.  But  the  first  chance  she  had— husband, 
children,  home,  all  flung  aside  in  a  moment.  Then  I  saw 
her  in  the  true  light,  and  understood  all  at  once  what  a 
blind  fool  I  had  been." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  129 

He  breathed  Quickly  and  painfully.  Mary  sat  without 
a  movement. 

"  I  thought  I  had  done  a  great  thing  in  marrying  a 
wife  that  was  born  above  me.  Her  father  had  been  a 
country  gentleman;  horse-racing  and  such  things  had 
brought  him.  down,  and  from  her  twelfth  year  his  daughter 
lived — I  never  quite  knew  how,  but  on  charity  of  some 
kind.  She  grew  up  without  trying  to  earn  her  own  liv- 
ing ;  she  thought  herself  too  good  for  that,  thought  she 
had  a  claim  to  be  supported,  because  as  a  child  she  was 
waited  upon  by  servants.  When  I  asked  her  once  if 
she  couldn't  have  done  something,  she  stared  at  me  and 
laughed  in  my  face.  For  all  that  she  was  glad  enough  to 
marry  a  man  of  my  sort — rough  and  uneducated  as  I  was. 
She  always  reminded  me  of  it,  though— that  I  had  no 
education ;  I  believe  she  thought  that  she  had  a  perfect 
right  to  throw  over  such  a  husband,  whenever  she  chose. 
Afterwards,  I  saw  very  well  that  her  education  didirt 
amount  to  much.  How  could  it,  when  she  learnt  nothing 
after  she  was  twelve  ?  She  was  living  with  very  poor 
people  who  came  from  my  part  of  the  country — that's  how 
I  met  her.  The  father  led  some  sort  of  blackguard  life  in 
London,  but  had  no  money  for  her,  nor  yet  for  his  other 
girl,  who  went  into  service,  I  was  told,  and  perhaps  made 
herself  a  useful,  honest  woman.  He  died  in  a  hospital, 
and  he  was  buried  at  my  expense — not  three  months  before 
his  daughter  went  off  and  left  me." 

"  You  will  never  tell  your  children,"  said  Mary,  when 
there  had  been  a  long  pause. 

"  I've  often  thought  it  would  only  be  right  if  I  told 
them.  I've  often  thought,  the  last  year  or  two,  that  Nancy 
ought  to  know.  It  might  make  her  think,  and  do  her 
good." 

"No,  no,"  returned  the  other  hurriedly.  "Never  let 
her  know  of  it — never.  It  might  do  her  much  harm." 

"  You  know  now,  Mary,  why  I  look  at  the  girl  so 
anxiously.  She's  not  like  her  mother ;  not  much  like  her 
in  face,  and  I  can't  think  she's  like  her  in  heart.  But  you 


130  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

know  what  her  faults  are  as  well  as  I  do.  Whether  I've 
been  right  or  wrong  in  giving  her  a  good  education,  I 
shall  never  know.  Wrong,  I  fear — but  I've  told  you  all 
about  that." 

"  You  don't  know  whether  she's  alive  or  not  ? "  asked 
Mary,  when  once  more  it  was  left  to  her  to  break  silence. 

u  What  do  I  care  ?    How  should  I  know  ? " 

"  Don't  be  tempted  to  tell  them — either  of  them  ! "  said 
the  other  earnestly. 

uMy  friend  Barmby  knows.  Whether  he's  told  his 
son,  I  can't  say ;  it  is  twenty  years  since  we  spoke  about 
it.  If  he  did  ever  mention  it  to  Samuel,  then  it  might 
somehow  get  known  to  Horace  or  the  girl,  when  I'm  gone. 
— I  won't  give  up  the  hope  that  young  Barmby  may  be 
her  husband.  She'll  have  time  to  think  about  it.  But  if 
ever  she  should  come  to  you  and  ask  questions — I  mean, 
if  she's  been  told  what  happened — you'll  set  me  right  in 
her  eyes  ?  You'll  tell  her  what  I've  told  you  ? " 

u  I  hope  it  may  never " 

"  So  do  I,"  Stephen  interrupted,  his  voice  husky  with 
fatigue.  "But  I  count  on  you  to  make  my  girl  think 
rightly  of  me,  if  ever  there's  occasion.  I  count  on  you. 
When  I'm  dead,  I  won't  have  her  think  that  I  was  to 
blame  for  her  mother's  ill-doing.  That's  why  I've  told 
you.  You  believe  me,  don't  you  ? " 

And  Mary,  lifting  her  eyes,  met  his  look  of  appeal  with 
more  than  a  friend's  confidence. 


II 

FROM  chambers  in  Staple  Inn,  Lionel  Tarrant  looked 
forth  upon  the  laborious  world  with  a  dainty  enjoyment 
of  his  own  limitless  leisure.  The  old  gables  fronting  upon 
Holborn  pleased  his  fancy;  he  liked  to  pass  under  the 
time-worn  archway,  and  so,  at  a  step,  estrange  himself 
from  commercial  tumult, — to  be  in  the  midst  of  modern 
life,  yet  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  ancient  repose. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 


He  belonged  to  an  informal  club  of  young  men 
who  called  themselves,  facetiously,  the  Hodiernals.  Vixi 
hodie  I  The  motto,  suggested  by  some  one  or  other  after 
a  fifth  tumbler  of  whisky  punch,  might  bear  more  than  a 
single  interpretation.  Harvey  Muiiden,  the  one  member 
of  this  genial  brotherhood  who  lived  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow,  proposed  as  a  more  suitable  title,  Les  Faineants; 
that,  however,  was  judged  pedantic,  not  to  say  offensive. 
For  these  sons  of  the  Day  would  not  confess  to  indolence  ; 
each  deemed  himself,  after  his  own  fashion,  a  pioneer  in 
art,  letters,  civilisation.  They  had  money  of  their  own,  or 
were  supported  by  some  one  who  could  afford  that  privi- 
lege ;  most  of  them  had,  ostensibly,  some  profession  in 
view  ;  for  the  present,  they  contented  themselves  with  liv- 
ing, and  the  weaker  brethren  read  in  their  hodiernity  an 
obligation  to  be  "  up  to  date." 

Tarrant  professed  himself  critical  of  To-day,  apprehen- 
sive of  To-morrow;  he  cast  a  backward  eye.  None  the 
less,  his  avowed  principle  was  to  savour  the  passing  hour. 
When  night  grew  mellow,  and  the  god  of  whisky  in- 
spired his  soul,  he  shone  in  a  lyrical  egoism  which  had 
but  slight  correspondence  with  the  sincerities  of  his  soli- 
*tude.  His  view  of  woman  —  the  Hodiernals  talked  much 
of  woman  —  differed  considerably  from  his  thoughts  of  the 
individual  women  with  whom  he  associated  ;  protesting 
oriental  sympathies,  he  nourished  in  truth  the  chivalry 
appropriate  to  his  years  and  to  his  education,  and  imaged 
an  ideal  of  female  excellence  whereof  the  prime  features 
were  moral  and  intellectual. 

He  had  no  money  of  his  own.  What  could  be  saved 
for  him  from  his  father's  squandered  estate  —  the  will 
established  him  sole  inheritor  —  went  in  the  costs  of  a  lib- 
eral education,  his  grandmother  giving  him  assurance 
that  he  should  not  go  forth  into  the  world  penniless.  This 
promise  Mrs.  Tarrant  had  kept,  though  not  exactly  in  the 
manner  her  grandson  desired.  Instead  of  making  him  a 
fixed  allowance,  the  old  lady  supplied  him  with  funds  at 
uncertain  intervals  ;  with  the  unpleasant  result  that  it  was 


132  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

sometimes  necessary  for  him  to  call  to  her  mind  his  de- 
pendent condition.  The  cheques  he  received  varied  greatly 
in  amount, — from  handsome  remittances  of  a  hundred 
pounds  or  so,  down  to  minim  gifts  which  made  the  young 
man  feel  uncomfortable  when  he  received  them.  Still,  he 
was  provided  for,  and  it  could  not  be  long  before  this  de- 
pendency came  to  an  end. 

He  believed  in  his  own  abilities.  Should  it  ever  be 
needful,  he  could  turn  to  journalism,  for  which,  un- 
doubtedly, he  had  some  aptitude.  But  why  do  anything 
at  all,  in  the  sense  of  working  for  money  ?  Every  year 
he  felt  less  disposed  for  that  kind  of  exertion,  and  had  a 
greater  relish  of  his  leisurely  life.  Mrs.  Tarrant  never  re- 
buked him  ;  indeed  she  had  long  since  ceased  to  make  in- 
quiry about  his  professional  views.  Perhaps  she  felt  it 
something  of  a  dignity  to  have  a  grandson  who  lived  as 
gentleman  at  large. 

But  now,  in  the  latter  days  of  August,  the  gentleman 
found  himself,  in  one  most  important  particular,  at  large 
110  longer.  On  returning  from  Teignmouth  to  Staple  Inn 
he  entered  his  rooms  with  a  confused,  disagreeable  sense 
that  things  were  not  as  they  had  been,  that  his  freedom 
had  suffered  a  violation,  that  he  could  not  sit  down  among 
his  books  with  the  old  self-centred  ease,  that  his  prospects 
were  completely,  indescribably  changed,  perchance  much 
for  the  worse.  In  brief,  Tarrant  had  gone  forth  a  bach- 
elor, and  came  back  a  married  man. 

Could  it  be  sober  fact  ?  Had  he  in  very  deed  com- 
mitted so  gross  an  absurdity  ? 

He  had  purposed  no  such  thing.  Miss  Nancy  Lord  was 
not  by  any  means  the  kind  of  person  that  entered  his 
thoughts  when  they  turned  to  marriage.  He  regarded  her 
as  in  every  respect  his  inferior.  She  belonged  to  the  so- 
cial rank  only  just  above  that  of  wage-earners  ;  her  father 
had  a  small  business  in  Camberwell ;  she  dressed  and 
talked  rather  above  her  station,  but  so,  now-a-days,  did 
every  daughter  of  petty  tradesfolk.  From  the  first  he  had 
amused  himself  with  her  affectation  of  intellectual  supe- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  133 

riority.  Miss  Lord  represented  a  type ;  to  study  her  as  a 
sample  of  the  pretentious  half-educated  class  was  interest- 
ing- ;  this  sort  of  girl  was  turned  out  in  thousands  every 
year,  from  so-called  High  Schools;  if  they  managed  to 
pass  some  examination  or  other,  their  conceit  grew  bound- 
less. Craftily,  he  had  tested  her  knowledge ;  it  seemed  all 
sham.  She  would  marry  some  hapless  clerk,  and  bring 
him  to  bankruptcy  by  the  exigencies  of  her  "  refinement." 

So  had  he  thought  of  Nancy  till  a  few  months  ago. 
But  in  the  spring-time,  when  his  emotions  blossomed  with 
the  blossoming  year,  he  met  the  girl  after  a  long  interval, 
and  saw  her  with  changed  eyes.  She  had  something  more 
than  prettiness ;  her  looks  undeniably  improved.  It 
seemed,  too,  that  she  bore  herself  more  gracefully,  and 
even  talked  with,  at  times,  an  approximation  to  the  speech 
of  a  lady.  These  admissions  signified  much  in  a  man  of 
Tarrant's  social  prejudice — so  strong  that  it  exercised  an 
appreciable  effect  upon  his  every-day  morals.  He  began 
to  muse  about  Miss  Lord,  and  the  upshot  of  his  musing 
was  that,  having  learnt  of  her  departure  for  Teignmouth, 
he  idly  betook  himself  in  the  same  direction. 

But  as  for  marriage,  he  would  as  soon  have  contem- 
plated taking  to  wife  a  barmaid.  Between  Miss  Lord  and 
the  young  lady  who  dispenses  refreshment  there  were  dis- 
tinctions, doubtless,  but  none  of  the  first  importance. 
Then  arose  the  question,  in  what  spirit,  with  what  purpose, 
did  he  seek  her  intimacy  ?  The  answer  he  simply  post- 
poned. 

And  postponed  it  very  late  indeed.  Until  the  choice 
was  no  longer  between  making  love  in  idleness,  and  con- 
scientiously holding  aloof ;  but  between  acting  like  a  frank 
blackguard,  and  making  the  amends  of  an  honest  man. 

The  girl's  fault,  to  be  sure.  He  had  not  credited  him- 
self with  this  power  of  fascination,  and  certainly  not  with 
the  violence  of  passion  which  recklessly  pursues  indul- 
gence. Still,  the  girl's  fault ;  she  had  behaved — well,  as  a 
half-educated  girl  of  her  class  might  be  expected  to  behave. 
Ignorance  she  could  not  plead ;  that  were  preposterous. 


134  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Utter  subjugation  by  first  love  ;  that,  perhaps  ;  she  affirmed 
i^  and  possibly  with  truth  ;  a  flattering  assumption,  at  all 
events.  But,  all  said  and  done,  the  issue  had  been  of  her 
own  seeking.  Why,  then,  accuse  himself  of  blackguardly 
conduct,  if  he  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  pleading  ?  Not 
one  word  of  marriage  had  previously  escaped  his  lips,  nor 
anything  that  could  imply  a  promise. 

Well,  there  was  the  awkward  and  unaccountable  fact 
that  he  felt  himself  obliged  to  marry  her ;  that,  when  he 
seemed  to  be  preparing  resistance,  downright  shame  ren- 
dered it  impossible.  Her  face — her  face  when  she  looked 
at  him  and  spoke !  The  truth  was,  that  he  had  not  hesi- 
tated at  all ;  there  was  but  one  course  open  to  him.  He 
gave  glances  in  the  other  direction  ;  he  wished  to  escape ; 
he  reviled  himself  for  his  folly;  he  saw  the  difficulties 
and  discontents  that  lay  before  him ;  but  choice  he  had 
none. 

Love,  in  that  sense  of  the  word  which  Tarrant  respected, 
could  not  be  said  to  influence  him.  He  had  uttered  the 
word ;  yes,  of  course  he  had  uttered  it ;  as  a  man  will  who 
is  goaded  by  his  raging  blood.  But  he  was  as  far  as  ever 
from  loving  Nancy  Lord.  Her  beauty,  and  a  certain  grow- 
ing charm  in  her  companionship,  had  lured  him  on ;  his 
habitual  idleness,  and  the  vagueness  of  his  principles, 
made  him  guilty  at  last  of  what  a  moralist  would  call  very 
deliberate  rascality.  He  himself  was  inclined  to  see  his 
behaviour  in  that  light ;  yet  why  had  Nancy  so  smoothed 
the  path  of  temptation  ? 

That  her  love  was  love  indeed,  he  might  take  for 
granted.  To  a  certain  point,  it  excused  her.  But  she 
seemed  so  thoroughly  able  to  protect  herself ;  the  time  of 
her  green  girlhood  had  so  long  gone  by.  For  explanation, 
he  must  fall  back  again  on  the  circumstances  of  her  origin 
and  training.  Perhaps  she  illustrated  a  social  peril,  the 
outcome  of  modern  follies.  Yes,  that  was  how  he  would 
look  at  it.  A  result  of  charlatan  "  education  "  operating 
upon  crude  character. 

Who  could  say  what  the  girl  had  been  reading,  what 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  135 

cheap  philosophies  had  unsettled  her  mind  ?    Is  not  a  little 
knowledge  a  dangerous  thing  ? 

Thus  far  had  he  progressed  in  the  four  and  twenty 
hours  which  followed  his — or  Nancy's — conquest.  Mean- 
while he  had  visited  the  office  of  the  registrar,  had  made 
his  application  for  a  marriage  licence,  a  proceeding  which 
did  not  tend  to  soothe  him.  Later,  when  he  saw  Nancy 
again,  he  experienced  a  revival  of  that  humaner  mood 
which  accompanied  his  pledge  to  marry  her,  the  mood  of 
regret,  but  also  of  tenderness,  of  compassion.  A  tender- 
ness that  did  not  go  very  deep,  a  half -slighting  compassion. 
His  character,  and  the  features  of  the  case,  at  present  al- 
lowed 110  more  ;  but  he  preferred  the  kindlier  attitude. 

Of  course  he  preferred  it.  Was  he  not  essentially  good- 
natured  ?  Would  he  not,  at  any  ordinary  season,  go  out 
of  his  way  to  do  a  kindness  ?  Did  not  his  soul  revolt 
against  every  form  of  injustice  ?  Whom  had  he  ever  in- 
jured ?  For  his  humanity,  no  less  than  for  his  urbanity, 
he  claimed  a  noteworthy  distinction  among  young  men  of 
the  time. 

And  there  lay  the  pity  of  it.  But  for  Nancy's  self- 
abandoiiment,  he  might  have  come  to  love  her  in  good 
earnest.  As  it  was,  the  growth  of  their  intimacy  had  been 
marked  with  singular,  unanticipated  impulses  orf  his  side, 
impulses  quite  inconsistent  with  heartless  scheming.  In 
the  compunctious  visitings  which  interrupted  his  love- 
making  at  least  twice,  there  was  more  than  a  revolt  of 
mere  honesty,  as  he  recognised  during  his  brief  flight  to 
London.  Had  she  exercised  but  the  common  prudence  of 
womanhood ! 

Why,  that  she  did  not,  might  tell  both  for  and  against 
her.  Granting  that  she  lacked  true  dignity,  native  refine- 
ment, might  it  not  have  been  expected  that  artfulness 
would  supply  their  place  ?  Artful  fencing  would  have 
stamped  her  of  coarse  nature.  But  coarseness  she  had 
never  betrayed ;  he  had  never  judged  her  worse  than  in- 
tellectually shallow.  Her  self -surrender  might,  then,  indi- 
cate a  trait  worthy  of  admiration.  Her  subsequent  be- 


136  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

haviour  undeniably  pleaded  for  respect.  She  acquainted 
him  with  the  circumstances  of  her  home  life,  very  mod- 
estly, perhaps  pathetically.  He  learnt  that  her  father  was 
not  ill  to  do,  heard  of  her  domestic  and  social  troubles, 
that  her  mother  had  been  long  dead,  things  weighing  in 
her  favour,  to  be  sure. 

If  only  she  had  loved  him  less ! 

It  was  all  over ;  he  was  married.  In  acting  honour- 
ably, it  seemed  probable  that  he  had  spoilt  his  life.  He 
must  be  prepared  for  anything.  Nancy  said  that  she 
should  not,  could  not,  tell  her  father,  yet  awhile ;  but 
that  resolution  was  of  doubtful  stability.  For  his  own 
part,  he  thought  it  clearly  advisable  that  the  fact  should 
not  become  known  at  Champion  Hill ;  but  could  he  be- 
lieve Nancy's  assurance  that  Miss  Morgan  remained  in 
the  dark  ?  Upon  one  catastrophe,  others  might  naturally 
follow. 

Here,  Saturday  at  noon,  came  a  letter  of  Nancy's  writ- 
ing. A  long  letter,  and  by  no  means  a  bad  one  ;  superior, 
in  fact,  to  anything  he  thought  she  could  have  written. 
It  moved  him  somewhat,  but  would  have  moved  him 
more,  had  he  not  been  legally  bound  to  the  writer.  On 
Sunday  she  could  not  come  to  see  him  ;  but  on  Monday 
early  in  the  afternoon — 

Well,  there  were  consolations.  A  wise  man  makes  the 
best  of  the  inevitable. 


Ill 

SINCE  his  return  he  had  seen  no  one,  and  none  of  his 
friends  knew  where  he  had  been.  A  call  from  some  stray 
Hodiernal  would  be  very  unseasonable  this  Monday  after- 
noon ;  but  probably  they  were  all  enjoying  their  elegant 
leisure  in  regions  remote  from  town.  As  the  hour  of 
Nancy's  arrival  drew  near,  he  sat  trying  to  compose  him- 
self— with  indifferent  success.  At  one  moment  his 
thoughts  found  utterance,  and  he  murmured  in  a  strange, 
bewildered  tone — uMy  wife."  Astonishing  words  !  He 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  137 

laughed  at  their  effect  upon  him,  but  unmirthfully.  And 
his  next  murmur  was — "  The  devil ! "  A  mere  ejaculation, 
betokening  his  state  of  mind. 

He  reached  several  times  for  his  pipe,  and  remem- 
bered when  he  had  touched  it  that  the  lips  with 
which  he  greeted  Nancy  ought  not  to  be  redolent  of 
tobacco.  In  outward  respect,  at  all  events,  he  would  not 
fall  short. 

Just  when  his  nervousness  was  becoming  intolerable, 
there  sounded  a  knock.  The  knock  he  had  anticipated — 
timid,  brief.  He  stepped  hastily  from  the  room  and 
opened.  Nancy  hardly  looked  at  him,  and  neither  of 
them  spoke  till  the  closing  of  two  doors  had  assured  their 
privacy. 

"  Well,  you  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  place  ? " 

"  No — none  at  all." 

They  stood  apart,  and  spoke  with  constraint.  Nancy's 
bosom  heaved,  as  though  she  had  been  hastening  over- 
much ;  her  face  was  deeply  coloured  ;  her  eyes  had  an 
unwonted  appearance,  resembling  those  of  a  night- watcher 
at  weary  dawn.  She  cast  quick  glances  about  the  room, 
but  with  the  diffidence  of  an  intruder.  Her  attitude  was 
marked  by  the  same  characteristic  ;  she  seemed  to  shrink, 
to  be  ashamed. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,1'  said  Tarrant  cheerfully,  as  he 
wheeled  a  chair. 

She  obeyed  him,  and  he,  stooping  beside  her,  offered 
his  lips.  Nancy  kissed  him,  closing  her  eyes  for  the  mo- 
ment, then  dropping  them  again. 

"  It  seems  a  long  time,  Nancy — doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  very  long  time." 

"  You  couldn't  come  on  Sunday  ?  " 

"I  found  my  father  very  ill.  I  didn't  like  to  leave 
home  till  to-day." 

"  Your  father  ill  ? — You  said  nothing  of  it  in  your 
letter." 

"  No — I  didn't  like  to — with  the  other  things." 

A  singular  delicacy  this  ;   Tarrant  understood  it,  and 


138  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  Again  she  was  examining 
the  room  with  hurried  glance  ;  upon  him  her  eyes  did 
not  turn.  He  asked  questions  about  Mr.  Lord.  Nancy 
could  not  explain  the  nature  of  his  illness  ;  he  had  spoken 
of  gout,  but  she  feared  it  must  be  something  worse ;  the 
change  in  him  since  she  went  away  was  incredible  and 
most  alarming.  This  she  said  in  short,  quick  sentences, 
her  voice  low.  Tarrant  thought  to  himself  that  in  her 
too,  a  very  short  time  had  made  a  very  notable  change ; 
he  tried  to  read  its  significance,  but  could  reach  no  cer- 
tainty. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  all  this — very  sorry.  You  must 
tell  me  more  about  your  father.  Take  off  your  hat,  dear, 
and  your  gloves." 

Her  gloves  she  removed  first,  and  laid  them  on  her 
lap  ;  Tarrant  took  them  away.  Then  her  hat ;  this  too 
he  placed  on  the  table.  Having  done  so,  he  softly  touched 
the  plaits  of  her  hair.  And,  for  the  first  time,  Nancy 
looked  up  at  him. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ? "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  subdued  by  doubt  of  the  answer. 

"  I  am — very  glad." 

His  hand  fell  to  her  shoulder.  With  a  quick  move- 
ment, a  stifled  exclamation,  the  girl  rose  and  flung  her 
arms  about  him. 

"  Are  you  really  glad  ?— Do  you  really  love  me  ? " 

"  Never  doubt  it,  dear  girl." 

"  Ah,  but  I  can't  help.  I  have  hardly  slept  at  night, 
in  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  doubt.  When  you  opened  the 
door,  I  felt  you  didn't  welcome  me.  Don't  you  think  of 
me  as  a  burden  ?  I  can't  help  wondering  why  I  am 
here." 

He  took  hold  of  her  left  hand,  and  looked  at  it,  then 
said  playfully  : 

"  Of  course  you  wonder.  What  business  has  a  wife 
to  come  and  see  her  husband  without  the  ring  on  her 
finger  ? " 

Nancy  turned    from    him,   opened    the   front  of  her 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  139 

dress,  unknotted  a  string  of  silk,  and  showed  her  finger 
bright  with  the  golden  circlet. 

"  That's  how  I  must  wear  it,  except  when  I  am  with 
you.  I  keep  touching — to  make  sure  it's  there." 

Tarrant  kissed  her  fingers. 

"Dear,"— she  had  her  face  against  him— "make  me 
certain  that  you  love  me.  Speak  to  me  like  you  did  be- 
fore. Oh,  I  never  knew  in  my  life  what  it  was  to  feel 
ashamed ! " 

"  Ashamed  ?    Because  you  are  married,  Nancy  ?  " 

"  Am  I  really  married  ?  That  seems  impossible.  It's 
like  having  dreamt  that  I  was  married  to  you.  I  can 
hardly  remember  a  thing  that  happened." 

"  The  registry  at  Teignmouth  remembers,"  he  answered 
with  a  laugh.  "  Those  books  have  a  long  memory." 

She  raised  her  eyes. 

"  But  wouldn't  you  undo  it  if  you  could  ?— No,  no,  I 
don't  mean  that.  Only  that  if  it  had  never  happened — if 
we  had  said  good-bye  before  those  last  days — wouldn't 
you  have  been  glad  now  ?  " 

"  Why,  that's  a  difficult  question  to  answer,"  he  re- 
turned gently.  "  It  all  depends  on  your  own  feeling." 

For  whatever  reason,  these  words  so  overcame  Nancy 
that  she  burst  into  tears.  Tarrant,  at  once  more  lover- 
like,  soothed  and  fondled  her,  and  drew  her  to  sit  on  his 
knee. 

"  You're  not  like  your  old  self,  dear  girl.  Of  course,  I 
can  understand  it.  And  your  father's  illness.  But  you 
mustn't  think  of  it  in  this  way.  I  do  love  you,  Nancy. 
I  couldn't  unsay  a  word  I  said  to  you — I  don't  wish  any- 
thing undone." 

"Make  me  believe  that.  I  think  I  should  be  quite 
happy  then.  It's  the  hateful  thought  that  perhaps  you 
never  wanted  me  for  your  wife ;  it  will  come,  again  and 
again,  and  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  would  rather  have 
died." 

"Send  such  thoughts  packing.  Tell  them  your  hus- 
band wants  all  your  heart  and  mind  for  himself." 


140  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"And  you  love  me — with  real,  husband's  love — love 
that  will  last  ? " 

"  Why  should  /  answer  all  the  questions  ? "  He  took 
her  face  between  his  hands.  "What  if  the  wife's  love 
should  fail  first  ? " 

"  You  can  say  that  lightly,  because  you  know '' 

"What  do  I  know?" 

"  You  know  that  I  am  all  love  of  you.  As  long  as  I 
am  myself,  I  must  love  you." 

Their  lips  met  in  a  long  silence. 

"  I  mustn't  stay  past  four  o'clock,"  were  Nancy's  next 
words.  "I  don't  like  to  be  away  long  from  the  house. 
Father  won't  ask  me  anything,  but  he  knows  I'm  away 
somewhere,  and  I'm  afraid  it  makes  him  angry  with  me." 
She  examined  the  room.  "How  comfortable  you  are 
here  !  what  a  delightful  old  place  to  live  in  ! " 

"  Will  you  look  at  the  other  rooms  ? " 

"  Not  to-day — when  I  come  again.  I  must  say  good- 
bye very  soon — oh,  see  how  the  time  goes  !  What  a  large 
library  you  have  !  You  must  let  me  look  at  all  the  books, 
when  I  have  time." 

*'  Let  you  ?    They  are  yours  as  much  as  mine." 

Her  face  brightened. 

"  I  should  like  to  live  here ;  how  I  should  enjoy  it 
after  that  hateful  Grove  Lane!  Shall  I  live  here  with 
you  some  day  ? " 

"  There  wouldn't  be  room  for  two.  Why,  your  dresses 
would  fill  the  whole  place." 

She  went  and  stood  before  the  shelves. 

"  But  how  dusty  you  are  !    Who  cleans  for  you  ? " 

"  No  one.  A  very  rickety  old  woman  draws  a  certain 
number  of  shillings  each  week,  on  pretence  of  cleaning." 

"  What  a  shame !  She  neglects  you  disgracefully. 
You  shall  go  away  some  afternoon,  and  leave  me  here 
with  a  great  pile  of  dusters." 

"  You  can  do  that  kind  of  thing  ?  It  never  occurred  to 
me  to  ask  you  :  are  you  a  domestic  person  ? " 

She  answered  with  something  of  the  old  confident  air. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  141 

"  That  was  an  oversight,  wasn't  it  ?  After  all,  how 
little  you  know  about  me  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  much  more  of  me  ? " 

Her  countenance  fell. 

"You  are  going  to  tell  me — everything.  How  long 
have  you  lived  here  ? " 

"  Two  years  and  a  half." 

"  And  your  friends  come  to  see  you  here  ?  Of  course 
they  do.  I  meant,  have  you  many  friends  ? " 

"  Friends,  no.     A  good  many  acquaintances." 

"  Men,  like  yourself  ? " 

"Mostly  men,  fellows  who  talk  about  art  and  litera- 
ture." 

"  And  women  ? "     Nancy  faltered,  half  turning  away. 

"Oh,  magnificent  creatures — Greek  scholars — mathe- 
maticians— all  that  is  most  advanced  ! " 

"That's  the  right  answer  to  a  silly  question,"  said 
Nancy  humbly. 

Whereat,  Tarrant  fixed  his  gaze  upon  her. 

"  I  begin  to  think  that " 

He  checked  himself  awkwardly.  Nancy  insisted  on 
the  completion  of  his  thought. 

"  That  of  all  the  women  I  know,  you  have  the  most 
sense." 

"  I  had  rather  hear  you  say  that  than  have  a  great 
fortune."  She  blushed  with  joy.  "  Perhaps  you  will  love 
me  some  day,  as  I  wish  to  be  loved." 

"  How  ? " 

"I'll  tell  you  another  time.  If  it  weren't  for  my 
father's  illness,  I  think  I  could  go  home  feeling  almost 
happy.  But  how  am  I  to  know  what  you  are  doing  ? " 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ? " 

"  Just  tell  me  how  you  live.  What  shall  you  do  now, 
when  I'm  gone  ? " 

"Sit  disconsolate," — he  came  nearer — "thinking  you 
were  just  a  little  unkind." 

"No,  don't  say  that."  Nancy  was  flurried.  "I  have 
told  you  the  real  reason.  Our  housekeeper  says  that 
10 


142  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

father  was  disappointed  and  angry  because  I  put  off  my 
return  from  Teignmouth.  He  spoke  to  me  very  coldly, 
and  I  have  hardly  seen  him  since.  He  won't  let  me  wait 
upon  him ;  and  I  have  thought,  since  I  know  how  ill  he 
really  is,  that  I  must  seem  heartless.  I  will  come  for 
longer  next  time." 

To  make  amends  for  the  reproach  he  had  uttered  in 
spite  of  himself,  Tarrant  began  to  relate  in  full  the  events 
of  his  ordinary  day. 

"I  get  my  own  breakfast — the  only  meal  I  have  at 
home.  Look,  here's  the  kitchen,  queer  old  place.  And 
here's  the  dining-room.  Cupboards  everywhere,  you  see  ; 
we  boast  of  our  cupboards.  The  green  paint  is  de  rigueur  ; 
duck's  egg  colour;  I've  got  to  like  it.  That  door  leads 
into  the  bed-room.  Well,  after  breakfast,  about  eleven 
o'clock  that's  to  say,  I  light  up — look  at  my  pipe-rack — 
and  read  newspapers.  Then,  if  it's  fine,  I  walk  about  the 
streets,  and  see  what  new  follies  men  are  perpetrating. 
And  then — 

He  told  of  his  favourite  restaurants,  of  his  unfashion- 
able club,  of  a  few  houses  where,  at  long  intervals,  he 
called  or  dined,  of  the  Hodiernals,  of  a  dozen  other  small 
matters. 

"What  a  life,"  sighed  the  listener,  "compared  with 
mine ! " 

"  We'll  remedy  that,  some  day." 

"  When  ?  "  she  asked  absently. 

"Wait  just  a  little. — You  don't  wish  to  tell  your 
father?" 

"  I  daren't  tell  him.  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  dare 
to  tell  him  face  to  face." 

"  Don't  think  about  it.     Leave  it  to  me." 

"  I  must  have  letters  from  you — but  how  ?  Perhaps,  if 
you  could  promise  always  to  send  them  for  the  first  post — 
I  generally  go  to  the  letter-box,  and  I  could  do  so  always 
—whilst  father  is  ill." 

This  was  agreed  upon.  Nancy,  whilst  they  were  talk- 
ing, took  her  hat  from  the  table ;  at  the  same  moment, 


IN   THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  143 

Tarrant's  hand  moved  towards  it.  Their  eyes  met,  and  the 
hand  that  would  have  checked  her  was  drawn  back. 
Quickly,  secretly,  she  drew  the  ring  from  her  finger,  hid 
it  somewhere,  and  took  her  gloves. 

"  Did  you  come  by  the  back  way  ? "  Tarrant  asked, 
when  he  had  bitten  his  lips  for  a  sulky  minute. 

u  Yes,  as  you  told  me." 

He  said  he  would  walk  with  her  into  Chancery  Lane ; 
there  could  be  no  risk  in  it. 

"  You  shall  go  out  first.  Any  one  passing  will  suppose 
you  had  business  with  the  solicitor  underneath.  I'll  over- 
take you  at  Southampton  Buildings." 

Impatient  to  be  gone,  she  lingered  minute  after  minute, 
and  broke  hurredly  from  his  restraining  arms  at  last.  The 
second  outer  door,  which  Tarrant  had  closed  on  her  en- 
trance, surprised  her  by  its  prison-like  massiveness.  In 
the  wooden  staircase  she  stopped  timidly,  but  at  the  exit 
her  eyes  turned  to  an  inscription  above,  which  she  had 
just  glanced  at  when  arriving :  Surrexit  e  flammis,  and 
a  date.  Nancy  had  no  Latin,  but  guessed  an  interpreta- 
tion from  the  last  .word.  Through  the  little  court,  with 
its  leafy  plane-trees  and  white-worn  cobble-stones,  she 
walked  with,  bent  head,  hearing  the  roar  of  Holborn 
through  the  front  archway,  and  breathing  more  freely 
when  she  gained  the  quiet  garden  at  the  back  of  the  Inn. 

Tarrant's  step  sounded  behind  her.  Looking  up  she 
asked  the  meaning  of  the  inscription  she  had  seen. 

"  You  don't  know  Latin  ?  Well,  why  should  you  ? 
Surrexit  e  flammis,  '  It  rose  again  from  the  flames.'  " 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  something  like  that.  You  will 
be  patient  with  my  ignorance  ? " 

A  strange  word  upon  Nancy's  lips.  No  mortal  ere  this 
had  heard  her  confess  to  ignorance. 

"  But  you  know  the  modern  languages  ? "  said  Tarrant, 
smiling. 

"  Yes.  That  is,  a  little  French  and  German — a  very 
little  German." 

Tarrant  mused,  seemingly  with  no  dissatisfaction. 


144  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 


IV 

IN  her  brother's  looks  and  speech  Nancy  detected  some- 
thing mysterious.  Undoubtedly  he  was  keeping  a  secret 
from  her,  and  there  could  be  just  as  little  doubt  that  he 
would  not  keep  it  long.  Whenever  she  questioned  him 
about  the  holiday  at  Scarborough,  he  put  on  a  smile  unlike 
any  she  had  ever  seen  on  his  face,  so  profoundly  thought- 
ful was  it,  so  loftily  reserved.  On  the  subject  of  Mrs. 
Damerel  he  did  not  choose  to  be  very  communicative; 
Nancy  gathered  little  more  than  she  had  learnt  from  his 
letter.  But  very  plainly  the  young  man  held  himself  in 
higher  esteem  than  hitherto ;  very  plainly  he  had  learnt  to 
think  of  "the  office"  as  a  burden  or  degradation,  from 
which  he  would  soon  escape.  Prompted  by  her  own  tor- 
menting conscience,  his  sister  wondered  whether  Fanny 
French  had  anything  to  do  with  the  mystery;  but  this 
seemed  improbable.  She  mentioned  Fanny's  name  one 
evening. 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  her  ? " 

"  Not  much,"  was  the  dreamy  reply.  "  When  are  you 
going  to  call  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  at  present,"  said  Nancy. 

"  You've  altered  again,  then  ? " 

She  vouchsafed  110  answer. 

"  There's  something  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  said 
Horace,  speaking  as  though  he  were  the  elder  and  felt  a 
responsibility.  "  People  have  been  talking  about  you  and 
Mr.  Ore  we." 

"What!"  She  flashed  into  excessive  anger.  "Who 
has  been  talking  ? " 

"  The  people  over  there.  Of  course  I  know  it's  all  non- 
sense. At  least" — he  raised  his  eyebrows — "I  suppose 
it  is." 

"/  should  suppose  so,"  said  Nancy,  with  vehement 
scorn. 

Their  father's  illness  imposed  a  restraint  upon  trifling 
conversation.  Mary  Woodruff,  now  attending  upon  Mr. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  145 

Lord  under  the  doctor's  directions,  had  held  grave  talk 
with  Nancy.  The  Barmbys,  father  and  son,  called  fre- 
quently, and  went  away  with  gloomy  faces.  Nancy  and 
her  brother  were  summoned,  separately,  to  the  invalid's 
room  at  uncertain  times,  but  neither  was  allowed  to ,  per- 
form any  service  for  him ;  their  sympathy,  more  often 
than  not,  excited  irritation ;  the  sufferer  always  seemed 
desirous  of  saying  more  than  the  few  and  insignificant 
words  which  actually  passed  his  lips,  and  generally,  after 
a  long  silence,  he  gave  the  young  people  an  abrupt  dis- 
missal. With  his  daughter  he  spoke  at  length,  in  lan- 
guage which  awed  her  by  its  solemnity;  Nancy  could 
only  understand  him  as  meaning  that  his  end  drew  near. 
He  had  been  reviewing,  he  said,  the  course  of  her  life,  and 
trying  to  forecast  her  future. 

"  I  give  you  no  more  advice  ;  it  would  only  be  repeat- 
ing what  I  have  said  hundreds  of  times.  All  I  can  do  for 
your  good,  I  have  done.  You  will  understand  me  better 
if  you  live  a  few  more  years,  and  I  think,  in  the  end,  you 
will  be  grateful  to  me." 

Nancy,  sitting  by  the  bedside,  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
father's  and  sobbed.  She  entreated  him  to  believe  that 
even  now  she  understood  how  wisely  he  had  guided  her. 

"  Tried  to,  Nancy ;  tried  to,  my  dear.  Guidance  isn't 
for  young  people  iiow-a-days.  Don't  let  us  shirk  the 
truth.  I  have  never  been  satisfied  with  you,  but  I  have 
loved  you — 

"And  I  you,  dear  father— I  have!  I  have !— I  know 
better  now  how  good  your  advice  was.  I  wish — far,  far 
more  sincerely  than  you  think — that  I  had  kept  more 
control  upon  myself — thought  less  of  myself  in  every 
way- 

Whilst  she  spoke  through  her  tears,  the  yellow, 
wrinkled  face  upon  the  pillow,  with  its  sunken  eyes  and 
wasted  lips,  kept  sternly  motionless. 

"  If  you  won't  mock  at  me,"  Stephen  pursued,  "  I  will 
show  you  an  example  you  would  do  well  to  imitate.  It  is 
our  old  servant,  now  my  kindest,  truest  friend.  If  I  could 


146  IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

hope  that  you  will  let  her  be  your  friend,  it  would  help  to 
put  my  mind  at  rest.  Don't  look  down  upon  her, — that's 
such  a  poor  way  of  thinking.  Of  all  the  women  I  have 
known  she  is  the  best.  Don't  be  too  proud  to  learn  from 
her,  Nancy.  In  all  these  twenty  years  that  she  has  been 
in  my  house,  whatever  she  undertook  to  do,  she  did  well ; 
— nothing  too  hard  or  too  humble  for  her,  if  she  thought  it 
her  duty.  I  know  what  that  means  ;  I  myself  have  been 
a  poor,  weak  creature,  compared  with  her.  Don't  be  of- 
fended because  I  ask  you  to  take  pattern  by  her.  I  know 
her  value  now  better  than  I  ever  knew  it  before.  I  owe 
her  a  debt  I  can't  pay." 

Nancy  left  the  room  burdened  with  strange  and  dis- 
tressful thoughts.  When  she  saw  Mary  she  looked  at  her 
with  new  feelings,  and  spoke  to  her  less  familiarly  than 
of  wont.  Mary  was  very  silent  in  these  days ;  her  face 
had  the  dignity  of  a  profound  unspoken  grief. 

To  his  son,  Mr.  Lord  talked  only  of  practical  things, 
urging  sound  advice,  and  refraining,  now,  from  any  men- 
tion of  their  differences.  Horace,  absorbed  in  preoccupa- 
tions, had  never  dreamt  that  this  illness  might  prove  fatal ; 
on  finding  Nancy  in  tears  he  was  astonished. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  dangerous  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  will  never  get  well." 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  The  young  man  went  apart 
and  pondered.  After  the  mid-day  meal,  having  heard 
from  Mary  that  his  father  was  no  worse,  he  left  home 
without  remark  to  any  one,  and  from  Camberwell  Green 
took  a  cab  to  Trafalgar  Square.  At  the  Hotel  Metropole 
he  inquired  for  Mrs.  Damerel ;  her  rooms  were  high  up, 
and  he  ascended  by  the  lift.  Sunk  in  a  deep  chair,  her 
feet  extended  upon  a  hassock,  Mrs.  Damerel  was  amusing 
herse]f  with  a  comic  paper ;  she  rose  briskly,  though  with 
the  effort  of  a  person  who  is  no  longer  slim. 

"  Here  I  am,  you  see  ! — up  in  the  clouds.  Now,  did  you 
get  my  letter  ? " 

"No  letter,  but  a  telegram." 

"  There,  I  thought  so.     Isn't  that  just  like  me  ?    As 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

soon  as  I  had  sent  out  the  letter  to  post,  I  said  to  myself 
that  I  had  written  the  wrong-  address.  What  address  it 
was,  I  couldn't  tell  you,  to  save  my  life,  but  I  shall  see 
when  it  comes  back  from  the  post-office.  I  rather  suspect 
it's  gone  to  Gunnersbury  ;  just  then  I  was  thinking  about 
somebody  at  Gumiersbury — or  somebody  at  Hampstead,  I 
can't  be  sure  which.  What  a  good  thing  I  wired ! — Oh, 
now,  Horace,  I  don't  like  that,  I  don't  really  ! " 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"  What  don't  you  like  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  tie.  It  won't  do  at  all.  Your  taste  is  gen- 
erally very  good,  but  that  tie !  I'll  choose  one  for  you- 
to-morrow,  and  let  you  have  it  the  next  time  you  come. 
Do  you  know,  I've  been  thinking  that  it  might  be  well  if 
you  parted  your  hair  in  the  middle.  I  don't  care  for  it  as 
a  rule ;  but  in  your  case,  with  your  soft,  beautiful  hair,  I 
think  it  would  look  well'.  Shall  we  try  ?  Wait  a  minute ; 
I'll  run  for  a  comb." 

"  But  suppose  some  one  came — 

"  Nobody  will  come,  my  dear  boy.  Hardly  any  one 
knows  I'm  here.  I  like  to  get  away  from  people  now  and 
then ;  that's  why  I've  taken  refuge  in  this  cock-loft." 

She  disappeared,  and  came  back  with  a  comb  of  tortoise- 
shell. 

"  Sit  down  there.  Oh,  what  hair  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  Al- 
most as  fine  as  my  own.  I  think  you'll  have  a  delicious 
moustache." 

Pier  personal  appearance  was  quite  in  keeping  with 
this  vivacity.  Rather  short,  and  inclining — but  as  yet 
only  inclining — to  rotundity  of  figure,  with  a  peculiarly  soft 
and  clear  complexion,  Mrs.  Damerel  made  a  gallant  battle 
against  the  hostile  years.  Her  bright  eye,  her  moist  lips, 
the  admirable  smoothness  of  brow  and  cheek  and->throat 
bore  witness  to  sound  health  ;  as  did  the  rows  of  teeth,  in- 
contestably  her  own,  which  she  exhibited  in  her  frequent 
mirth.  A  handsome  woman  still,  though  not  of  the  type 
that  commands  a  reverent  admiration.  Her  frivolity  did 
not  exclude  a  suggestion  of  shrewdness,  nor  yet  of  capa- 


148  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

city  for  emotion,  but  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  wise  or 
elevated  thought  behind  that  narrow  brow.  She  was 
elaborately  dressed,  with  only  the  most  fashionable  sym- 
bols of  widowhood  ;  rings  adorned  her  podgy  little  hand, 
and  a  bracelet  her  white  wrist.  Refinement  she  possessed 
only  in  the  society- journal  sense,  but  her  intonation  was 
that  of  the  idle  class,  and  her  grammar  did  not  limp. 

"  There — let  me  look.  Oh,  I  think  that's  an  improve- 
ment— more  distingue.  And  now  tell  me  the  news.  How 
is  your  father  ? " 

u  Very  bad,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Horace,  when  he  had  re- 
garded himself  in  a  mirror  with  something  of  doubt- 
fulness. "Nancy  says  that  she's  afraid  he  won't  get 
well." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  say  that !  Oh,  how  very  sad  !  But  let 
us  hope.  I  can't  think  it's  so  bad  as  that." 

Horace  sat  in  thought.  Mrs.  Damerel,  her  bright  eyes 
subduing  their  gaiety  to  a  keen  reflectiveness,  put  several 
questions  regarding  the  invalid,  then  for  a  moment  medi- 
tated. 

"Well,  we  must  hope  for  the  best.  Let  me  know  to- 
morrow how  he  gets  on — be  sure  you  let  me  know.  And 
if  anything  should  happen — oh,  but  that's  too  sad;  we 
won't  talk  about  it." 

Again  she  meditated,  tapping  the  floor,  and,  as  it 
seemed,  trying  not  to  smile. 

"  Don't  be  downcast,  my  dear  boy.  Never  meet  sorrow 
half-way — if  you  knew  how  useful  I  have  found  it  to  re- 
member that  maxim.  I  have  gone  through  sad,  sad  things 
— ah  !  But  now  tell  me  of  your  own  affairs.  Have  you 
seen  la  petite  f " 

"I  just  saw  her  the  other  evening,"  he  answered  un- 
easily. 

"  Just  ?  What  does  that  mean,  I  wonder  ?  Now  you 
don't  look  anything  like  so  well  as  when  you  were  at 
Scarborough.  You're  worrying ;  yes,  I  know  you  are.  It's 
your  nervous  constitution,  my  poor  boy.  So  you  just  saw 
her  ?  No  more  imprudences  ? " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  149 

She  examined  his  face  attentively,  her  lips  set  with 
tolerable  firmness. 

"  It's  a  very  difficult  position,  you  know,"  said  Horace, 
wriggling  in  his  chair.  "  I  can't  get  out  of  it  all  at  once. 
And  the  truth  is,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  wish  to." 

Mrs.  Damerel  drew  her  eyebrows  together,  and  gave  a 
loud  tap  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  that's  weak — that's  very  weak  !  After  promising 
me !  Now  listen  ;  listen  seriously."  She  raised  a  finger. 
"If  it  goes  on,  I  have  nothing — more — whatever  to  do 
with  you.  It  would  distress  me  very,  very  much ;  but  I 
can't  interest  myself  in  a  young  man  who  makes  love  to  a 
girl  so  very  far  beneath  him.  Be  led  by  me,  Horace,  and 
your  future  will  be  brilliant.  Prefer  this  young  lady  of 
Camberwell,  and  lose  everything." 

Horace  leaned  forward  and  drooped  his  head. 

"  I  don't  think  you  form  anything  like  a  right  idea  of 
her,"  he  said. 

The  other  moved  impatiently. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  know  her  as  well  as  if  I'd  lived  with 
her  for  years.  Oh,  how  silly  you  are !  But  then  you  are 
so  young,  so  very  young." 

With  the  vexation  on  her  face  there  blended,  as  she 
looked  at  him,  a  tenderness  unmistakably  genuine. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what.  I  have  really  no  objection 
to  make  Fanny's  acquaintance.  Suppose,  after  all,  you 
bring  her  to  see  me  one  of  these  days.  Not  just  yet.  You 
must  wait  till  I  am  in  the  mood  for  it.  But  before  very 
long." 

Horace  looked  up  with  pleasure  and  gratitude. 

"  Now,  that's  really  kind  of  you  ! " 

"  Really  ?  And  all  the  rest  is  only  pretended  kind- 
ness ?  Silly  boy  !  Some  day  you  will  know  better.  Now, 
think,  Horace;  suppose  you  were  so  unhappy  as  to  lose 
your  father.  Could  you,  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  do 
something  that  you  know  would  have  pained  him 
deeply  ? " 

The  pathetic  note  was  a  little  strained ;   putting  her 


150  IN  THE  YEAR   OF  JUBILEE. 

head  aside,  Mrs.  Damerel  looked  rather  like  a  sentimental 
picture  in  an  advertisement.  Horace  did  not  reply. 

"You  surely  wouldn't,"  pursued  the  lady,  with  empha- 
sis, watching  him  closely ;  "  you  surely  wouldn't  and 
couldn't  marry  this  girl  as  soon  as  your  poor  father  was 
in  his  grave  ? " 

"  Oh,  of  course  not." 

Mrs.  Damerel  seemed  relieved,  but  pursued  her  ques- 
tioning. 

"  You  couldn't  think  of  marrying  for  at  least  half  a 
year  ? " 

"  Fanny  wouldn't  wish  it." 

"  No,  of  course  not,  well  now, — I  think  I  must  make  her 
acquaintance.  But  how  weak  you  are,  Horace  !  Oh,  those 
nerves  !  All  finely,  delicately  organised  people,  like  you, 
make  such  blunders  in  life.  Your  sense  of  honour  is  such 
a  tyrant  over  you.  Now,  mind,  I  don't  say  for  a  moment 
that  Fanny  isn't  fond  of  you, — how  could  she  help  being, 
my  dear  boy  ?  But  I  do  insist  that  she  will  be  very  much 
happier  if  you  let  her .  marry  some  one  of  her  own  class. 
You,  Horace,  belong  to  a  social  sphere  so  far,  far  above 
her.  If  I  could  only  impress  that  upon  your  modesty. 
You  are  made  to  associate  with  people  of  the  highest  re- 
finement. How  deplorable  to  think  that  a  place  in  society 
is  waiting  for  you,  and  you  keep  longing  for  Camber- 
well  ! " 

The  listener's  face  wavered  between  pleasure  in  such 
flattery  and  the  impulse  of  resistance. 

"Remember,  Horace,  if  anything  should  happen  at 
home,  you  are  your  own  master.  I  could  introduce  you 
freely  to  people  of  wealth  and  fashion.  Of  course  you 
could  give  up  the  office  at  once.  I  shall  be  taking  a  house 
in  the  West-end,  or  a  flat,  at  all  events.  I  shall  entertain 
a  good  deal — and  think  of  your  opportunities  !  My  dear 
boy,  I  assure  you  that,  with  personal  advantages  such  as 
yours,  you  might  end  by  marrying  an  heiress.  Nothing 
more  probable  !  And  you  can  talk  of  such  a  girl  as  Fanny 
French — for  shame  !  " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"I  mustn't  propose  any  gaieties  just  now,"  she  said, 
when  they  had  been  together  for  an  hour.  "  And  I  shall 
wait  so  anxiously  for  news  of  your  father.  If  anything 
did  happen,  what  would  your  sister  do,  I  wonder  ?  " 

urm  sure  I  don't  know — except  that  she'd  get  away 
from  Camberwell.  Nancy  hates  it." 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  may  be  able  to  be  of  use  to  her.  But, 
you  say  she  is  such  a  grave  and  learned  young  lady  ?  I 
am  afraid  we  should  bore  each  other." 

To  this,  Horace  could  venture  only  an  uncertain  reply. 
He  had  not  much  hope  of  mutual  understanding  between 
his  sister  and  Mrs.  Damerel. 

At  half -past  five  he  was  home  again,  and  there  followed 
a  cheerless  evening.  Nancy  was  in  her  own  room  until 
nine  o'clock.  She  came  down  for  supper,  but  had  no  appe- 
tite ;  her  eyes  showed  redness  from  weeping ;  Horace  could 
say  nothing  for  her  comfort.  After  the  meal,  they  went 
up  together  to  the  drawing-room,  and  sat  unoccupied. 

"  If  we  lose  father,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  dull  voice  very  un- 
like her  ordinary  tones,  "  we  shall  have  not  a  single  rela- 
tive left,  that  is  anything  to  us." 

Her  brother  kept  silence. 

"Has  Mrs.  Damerel,"  she  continued,  "ever  said  any- 
thing to  you  about  mother's  family  ? " 

After  hesitation,  Horace  answered,  "Yes,"  and  his 
countenance  showed  that  the  affirmative  had  special  mean- 
ing. Nancy  waited  with  an  inquiring  look. 

"  I  haven't  told  you,"  he  added,  "  because— we  have  had 
other  things  to  think  about.  But  Mrs.  Damerel  is  mother's 
sister,  our  aunt." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  that  ? " 

"  She  told  me  at  Scarborough." 

"  But  why  didn't  she  tell  you  so  at  first  ? " 

"That's  what  I  can't  understand.  She  says  she  was 
afraid  I  might  mention  it ;  but  I  don't  believe  that's  the 
real  reason." 

Nancy's  questioning  elicited  all  that  was  to  be  learnt 
from  her  brother,  little  more  than  she  had  heard  already ; 


152  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  same  story  of  a  disagreement  between  Mrs.  Damerel 
and  their  father,  of  long  absences  from  England,  and  a  re- 
vival of  interest  in  her  relatives,  following  upon  Mrs. 
Damerel's  widowhood. 

"She  would  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you  liked.  But  I 
doubt  whether  you  would  get  on  very  well." 

"Why?" 

"  She  doesn't  care  about  the  same  things  that  you  do. 
She's  a  woman  of  society,  you  know." 

"But  if  she's  mother's  sister.  Yes,  I  should  like  to 
know  her."  Nancy  spoke  with  increasing  earnestness. 
"  It  makes  everything  quite  different.  I  must  see  her." 

"  Well,  as  I  said,  she's  quite  willing.  But  you  remem- 
ber that  I'm  supposed  not  to  have  spoken  about  her  at  all. 
I  should  have  to  get  her  to  send  you  a  message,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind.  Of  course,  we  have  often  talked  about 
you." 

"  I  can't  form  an  idea  of  her,"  said  Nancy  impatiently. 
"  Is  she  good  ?  Is  she  really  kind  ?  Couldn't  you  get  her 
portrait  to  show  me  ? " 

"I  should  be  afraid  to  ask,  unless  she  had  given  me 
leave  to  speak  to  you." 

"  She  really  lives  in  good  society  ? " 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  the  sort  of  people  she  knows  ?  She 
must  be  very  well  off ;  there  can't  be  a  doubt  of  it." 

"  I  don't  care  so  much  about  that,"  said  Nancy  in  a 
brooding  voice.  "It's  herself, — whether  she's  kind  and 
good  and  wishes  well  to  us." 

The  next  day  there  was  no  change  in  Mr.  Lord's  condi- 
tion ;  a  deep  silence  possessed  the  house.  In  the  afternoon 
Nancy  went  to  pass  an  hour  with  Jessica  Morgan ;  on  her 
return  she  met  Samuel  Barmby,  who  was  just  leaving  after 
a  visit  to  the  sick  man.  Samuel  bore  himself  with  por- 
tentous gravity,  but  spoke  only  a  few  commonplaces, 
affecting  hope ;  he  bestowed  upon  Nancy's  hand  a  fervent 
pressure,  and  strode  away  with  the  air  of  an  undertaker 
who  had  called  on  business. 

Two  more  days  of  deepening  gloom,   then  a    night 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  153 

through  which  Nancy  sat  with  Mary  Woodruff  by  her 
father's  bed.  Mr.  Lord  was  unconscious,  but  from  time  to 
time  a  syllable  or  a  phrase  fell  from  his  lips,  meaningless 
to  the  watchers.  At  dawn,  Nancy  went  to  her  chamber, 
pallid,  exhausted.  Mary,  whose  strength  seemed  proof 
against  fatigue,  moved  about  the  room,  preparing  for  a 
new  day ;  every  few  minutes  she  stood  with  eyes  fixed  on 
the  dying  face,  and  the  tears  she  had  restrained  in  Nancy's 
presence  flowed  silently. 

When  the  sun  made  a  golden  glimmer  upon  the  wall, 
Mary  withdrew,  and  was  absent  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
On  returning,  she  bent  at  once  over  the  bed;  her  eyes 
were  met  by  a  grave,  wondering  look. 

"  Do  you  know  me  ? "  she  whispered. 

The  lips  moved ;  she  bent  lower,  but  could  distinguish 
no  word.  He  was  speaking ;  the  murmur  continued ;  but 
she  gathered  no  sense. 

"  You  can  trust  me,  I  will  do  all  I  can." 

He  seemed  to  understand  her,  and  smiled.  As  the 
smile  faded  away,  passing  into  an  austere  calm,  Mary 
pressed  her  lips  upon  his  forehead. 


AFTER  breakfast,  and  before  Arthur  Peachey's  departure 
for  business,  there  had  been  a  scene  of  violent  quarrel  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife.  It  took  place  in  the  bed-room, 
where,  as  usual  save  on  Sunday  morning,  Ada  consumed  her 
strong  tea  and  heavily  buttered  toast ;  the  state  of  her  health 
— she  had  frequent  ailments,  more  or  less  genuine,  such  as 
afflict  the  indolent  and  brainless  type  of  woman — made  it 
necessary  for  her  to  repose  till  a  late  hour.  Peachey  did 
not  often  lose  self-control,  though  sorely  tried;  the  one 
occasion  that  unchained  his  wrath  was  when  Ada's  heed- 
lessness  or  ill-temper  affected  the  we]lbeing  of  his  child. 
This  morning  it  had  been  announced  to  him  that  the 
nurse-girl,  Emma,  could  no  longer  be  tolerated ;  she  was 


154  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

making  herself  offensive  to  her  mistress,  had  spoken  inso- 
lently, disobeyed  orders,  and  worst  of  all,  defended  her- 
self by  alleging  orders  from  Mr.  Peachey.  Hence  the  out- 
break of  strife,  signalled  by  furious  shrill  voices,  audible 
to  Beatrice  and  Fanny  as  they  sat  in  the  room  beneath. 

Ada  came  down  at  half-past  ten,  and  found  Beatrice 
writing  letters.  She  announced  what  any  who  did  not 
know  her  would  have  taken  for  a  final  resolve. 

"  I'm  going — I  won't  put  up  with  that  beast  any  longer. 
I  shall  go  and  live  at  Brighton." 

Her  sister  paid  not  the  slightest  heed ;  she  was  intent 
upon  a  business  letter  of  much  moment. 

u  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ?  I'm  going  by  the  first  train 
this  afternoon." 

"  All  right,"  remarked  Beatrice  placidly.  "  Don't  inter- 
rupt me  just  now." 

The  result  of  this  was  fury  directed  against  Beatrice, 
who  found  herself  accused  of  every  domestic  vice  com- 
patible with  her  position.  She  was  a  sordid  creature,  liv- 
ing at  other  people's  expense, — a  selfish,  scheming,  envious 
wretch — 

"  If  I  were  your  husband,"  remarked  the  other  without 
looking  up,  "  I  should  long  since  have  turned  you  into  the 
street — if  I  hadn't  broken  your  neck  first." 

Exercise  in  quarrel  only  made  Ada's  voice  the  clearer 
and  more  shrill.  It  rose  now  to  the  highest  points  of  a 
not  inconsiderable  compass.  But  Beatrice  continued  to 
write,  and  by  resolute  silence  put  a  limit  to  her  sister's 
railing.  A  pause  had  just  come  about,  when  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  in  rushed  Fanny,  hatted  and  gloved 
from  a  walk. 

"  He's  dead ! "  she  said  excitedly.     "  He's  dead  ! " 

Beatrice  turned  with  a  look  of  interest.  "  Who  ?  Mr. 
Lord?" 

"  Yes.  The  blinds  are  all  down.  He  must  have  died 
in  the  night." 

Her  cheeks  glowed  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  as  though 
she  had  brought  the  most  exhilarating  news. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  155 

"  What  do  I  care  ? "  said  Mrs.  Peachey,  to  whom  her 
sister  had  addressed  the  last  remark. 

"  Just  as  much  as  I  care  about  your  affairs,  no  doubt," 
returned  Fanny,  with  genial  frankness. 

"Don't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry,"  remarked  Beatrice, 
who  showed  the  calculating  winkle  at  the  corner  of  her 
eye.  ''Because  he's  dead,  that  doesn't  say  that  your 
masher  comes  in  for  money." 

"Who'll  get  it,  then?" 

"  There  may  be  nothing  worth  speaking  of  to  get,  for 
all  we  know." 

Beatrice  had  not  as  yet  gained  Fanny's  co-operation  in 
the  commercial  scheme  now  being  elaborated  ;  though  of 
far  more  amiable  nature  than  Mrs.  Peachey,  she  heartily 
hoped  that  the  girl  might  be  disappointed  in  her  expecta- 
tions from  Mr.  Lord's  will.  An  hour  later,  she  walked 
along  Grove  Lane,  and  saw  for  herself  that  Fanny's  an- 
nouncement was  accurate ;  the  close-drawn  blinds  could 
mean  but  one  thing. 

To-day  there  was  little  likelihood  of  learning  particu- 
lars, but  on  the  morrow  Fanny  might  perchance  hear 
something  from  Horace  Lord.  However,  the  evening 
brought  a  note,  hand-delivered  by  some  stranger.  Horace 
wrote  only  a  line  or  two,  informing  Fanny  that  his  father 
had  died  about  eight  o'clock  that  morning,  and  adding : 
"  Please  be  at  home  to-morrow  at  twelve." 

At  twelve  next  day  Fanny  received  her  lover  alone  in 
the  drawing-room.  He  entered  with  the  exaggerated  so- 
lemnity of  a  very  young  man  who  knows  for  the  first  time 
a  grave  bereavement,  and  feels  the  momentary  importance 
it  confers  upon  him.  Fanny,  trying  to  regard  him  with- 
out a  smile,  grimaced ;  decorous  behaviour  was  at  all 
times  impossible  to  her,  for  she  neither  understood  its 
nature  nor  felt  its  obligation.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
smiled  unrestrainedly,  and  spoke  the  things  that  rose  to 
her  lips. 

"  I've  been  keeping  a  secret  from  you,"  said  Horace,  in 
the  low  voice  which  had  to  express  his  sorrow, — for  he 


156  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

could  not  preserve  a  gloomy  countenance  with  Fanny  be- 
fore him.  "  But  I  can  tell  you  now." 

"  A  secret  ?  And  what  business  had  you  to  keep  secrets 
from  me  ? " 

"  It's  about  Mrs.  Damerel.  When  I  was  at  the  seaside 
she  told  me  who  she  really  is.  She's  my  aunt — my  moth- 
er's sister.  Queer,  isn't  it  ?  Of  course  that  makes  every- 
thing different.  And  she's  going  to  ask  you  to  come  and 
see  her.  It'll  have  to  be  put  off  a  little — now ;  but  not  very 
long,  I  dare  say,  as  she's  a  relative.  You'll  have  to  do  your 
best  to  please  her." 

"  I'm  sure  I  shan't  put  myself  out  of  the  way.  People 
must  take  me  as  they  find  me." 

"  Now  don't  talk  like  that,  Fanny.  It  isn't  very  kind 
— just  now.  I  thought  you'd  be  different  to-day." 

"  All  right. — Have  you  anything  else  to  tell  me  ? " 

Horace  understood  her  significant  glance,  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  I'll  let  you  know  everything  as  soon  as  I  know  my- 
self." 

Having  learnt  the  day  and  hour  of  Mr.  Lord's  funeral, 
Ada  and  Fanny  made  a  point  of  walking  out  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  it.  The  procession  of  vehicles  in  Grove  Lane 
excited  their  contempt,  so  far  was  it  from  the  splendour 
they  had  anticipated. 

"  There  you  are ! "  said  Ada ;  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
it's  going  to  be  a  jolly  good  take  in  for  you,  after  all.  If 
he'd  died  worth  much,  they  wouldn't  have  buried  him  like 
that." 

Fanny's  heart  sank.  She  could  conceive  no  other  ex- 
planation of  a  simple  burial  save  lack  of  means,  or  resent- 
ment in  the  survivors  at  the  disposition  made  of  his  prop- 
erty by  the  deceased.  When,  on  the  morrow,  Horace  told 
her  that  his  father  had  strictly  charged  Mr.  Barmby  to 
have  him  buried  in  the  simplest  mode  compatible  with 
decency,  she  put  it  down  to  the  old  man's  excessive  mean- 
ness. 

On  this  occasion  she  learnt  the  contents  of  Mr.  Lord's 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  157 

will,  and  having  learnt  them,  got  rid  of  Horace  as  soon  as 
possible  that  she  might  astonish  her  sisters  with  the  report. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  Beatrice  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  Luckworth  Crewe.  She  was  to  meet  him  at  the 
office  he  had  just  taken  in  Farriiigdon  Street,  whence  they 
would  repair  to  a  solicitor's  in  the  same  neighbourhood, 
for  the  discussion  of  legal  business  connected  with  Miss 
French's  enterprise.  She  climbed  the  staircase  of  a  big 
building,  and  was  directed  to  the  right  door  by  the  sound 
of  Crewe's  voice,  loudly  and  jocularly  discoursing.  He 
stood  with  two  men  in  the  open  doorway,  and  at  the  sight 
of  Beatrice  waved  a  hand  to  her. 

"  Take  your  hook,  you  fellows  ;  I  have  an  engagement." 
The  men,  glancing  at  Miss  French  facetiously,  went  their 
way.  "  How  do,  old  chum  ?  It's  all  in  a  mess  yet ;  hold 
your  skirts  together.  Come  along  this  way." 

Through  glue-pots  and  shavings  and  an  overpowering 
smell  of  paint,  Beatrice  followed  to  inspect  the  premises, 
which  consisted  of  three  rooms;  one,  very  much  the 
smallest,  about  ten  feet  square.  Three  workmen  were 
busy,  and  one,  fitting  up  shelves,  whistled  a  melody  with 
ear-piercing  shrillness. 

u  Stop  that  damned  noise  ! "  shouted  Crewe.  "  I've  told 
you  once  already.  Try  it  on  again,  my  lad, 'and  I'll  drop 
you  down  the  well  of  the  staircase — you've  too  much 
breath,  you  have." 

The  other  workmen  laughed.  It  was  evident  that 
Crewe  had  made  friends  with  them  all. 

"  Won't  be  bad,  when  we  get  the  decks  cleared,"  he 
remarked  to  Beatrice.  "  Plenty  of  room  to  make  twenty 
thousand  a  year  or  so." 

He  checked  himself,  and  asked  in  a  subdued  voice, 
"  Seen  anything  of  the  Lords  ? " 

Beatrice  nodded  with  a  smile.  "  And  heard  about  the 
will.  Have  you  ? " 

"  No,  I  haven't.     Come  into  this  little  room." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  them,  and  looked  at  his 
companion  with  curiosity,  but  without  show  of  eagerness. 
11 


158  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Well,  it's  a  joke,"  said  Miss  French. 

"Is  it?    How?" 

"  Fanny's  that  mad  about  it !  She'd  got  it  into  her  silly 
noddle  that  Horace  Lord  would  drop  in  for  a  fortune  at 
once.  As  it  is,  he  gets  nothing  at  all  for  two  years  except 
what  the  Barmbys  choose  to  give  him.  And  if  he  marries 
before  he's  four-and-tweiity,  he  loses  everything — every 
cent ! " 

Crewe  whistled  a  bar  of  a  street-melody,  then  burst 
into  laughter. 

"  That's  how  the  old  joker  has  done  them,  is  it  ?  Quite 
right  too.  The  lad  doesn't  know  his  own  mind  yet.  Let 
Fanny  wait  if  she  really  wants  him — and  if  she  can  keep 
hold  of  him.  But  what  are  the  figures  ? " 

"  Nothing  startling.  Of  course  I  don't  know  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  it,  but  Horace  Lord  will  get  seven  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  a  sixth  share  in  the  piano  business.  Old 
Barmby  and  his  son  are  trustees.  They  may  let  Horace 
have  just  what  they  think  fit  during  the  next  two  years. 
If  he  wants  money  to  go  into  business  with,  they  may  ad- 
vance what  they  like.  But  for  two  years  he's  simply  in 
their  hands,  to  be  looked  after.  And  if  he  marries— pop 
goes  the  weasel ! " 

"  And  Miss  Lord  ? "  asked  Crewe  carelessly. 

Beatrice  pointed  a  finger  at  him. 

"  You  want  to  know  badly,  don't  you  ?  Well,  its  pretty 
much  the  same  as  the  other.  To  begin  with,  if  she  marries 
before  the  age  of  six-and-twenty,  she  gets  nothing  what- 
ever. If  she  doesn't  marry,  there's  two  hundred  a  year  to 
live  on  and  to  keep  up  the  house. — Oh,  I  was  forgetting ; 
she  must  not  only  keep  single  to  twenty-six,  but  continue 
to  live  where  she  does  now,  with  that  old  servant  of  theirs 
for  companion.  At  six-and-twenty  she  tak.es  the  same  as 
her  brother,  about  seven  thousand,  and  a  sixth  share  in 
Lord  and  Barmby." 

Again  Crewe  whistled. 

"  That's  about  three  years  still  to  live  in  Grove  Lane," 
he  said  thoughtfully.  "Well,  the  old  joker  has  pinned 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  159 

them,  and  no  mistake.  I  thought  he  had  more  to 
leave." 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  remarked  Beatrice  significantly. 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow,  don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  he 
replied  good-humouredly,  hut  with  a  reproof  not  to  be 
mistaken.  u  I  thought  nothing  about  it  in  the  way  that 
you  mean.  But  it  isn't  much,  after  living  as  he  has  done. 
I  suppose  you  doii't  know  how  the  money  lies  ? " 

"  I  have  it  all  from  Fanny,  and  it's  a  wonder  she  re- 
membered as  much  as  she  did." 

"  Oh,  Fanny's  pretty  smart  in  £.  s.  d.  But  did  she  say 
what  becomes  of  the  money  if  either  of  them  break  the 
terms  ? " 

"Goes  to  a  girl's  orphanage,  somewhere  in.  the  old 
man's  country.  But  there's  more  than  I've  accounted  for 
yet.  Young  Barmby's  sisters  get  legacies — a  hundred  and 
fifty  apiece.  And,  last  of  all,  the  old  servant  has  an  an- 
nuity of  two  hundred.  He  made  her  a  sort  of  housekeeper 
not  long  ago,  H.  L.  says ;  thought  no  end  of  her." 

"  Don't  know  anything  about  her,"  said  Crewe  absent- 
ly. "I  should  like  to  know  the  business  details.  What 
arrangement  was  made,  I  wonder,  when  he  took  Barmby 
into  partnership  ? " 

u  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  simply  gave  him  a 
share.  Old  Barmby  and  Lord  were  great  chums.  Then, 
you  see,  Samuel  Barmby  has  a  third  of  his  profits  to  pay 
over,  eventually." 

Beatrice  went  on  to  speak  of  the  mysterious  Mrs. 
Damerel,  concerning  whom  she  had  heard  from  Fanny. 
The  man  of  business  gave  particular  ear  to  this  story,  and 
asked  many  questions.  Of  a  sudden,  as  if  dismissing  mat- 
ters which  hardly  concerned  him,  he  said  mirthfully  : 

"You've  heard  about  the  row  at  Lillie  Bridge  yes- 
terday ? " 

"  I  saw  something  about  it  in  the  paper." 

u  Well,  I  was  there.  Pure  chance ;  haven't  been  at 
that  kind  of  place  for  a  year  and  more.  It  was  a  match 
for  the  Sprint  Championship  and  a  hundred  pounds. 


160  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Timed  for  six  o'clock,  but  at  a  quarter  past  the  chaps 
hadn't  come  forward.  I  heard  men  talking,  and  guessed 
there  was  something  wrong ;  they  thought  it  a  put-up  job. 
When  it  got  round  that  there'd  be  no  race,  the  excitement 
broke  out,  and  then — I'd  have  given  something  for  you  to 
see  it !  First  of  all  there  was  a  rush  for  the  gate-money ; 
a  shilling  a  piece,  you  know,  we'd  all  paid.  There  were  a 
whole  lot  of  North-of -England  chaps,  fellow  countrymen 
of  mine,  and  I  heard  some  of  them  begin  to  send  up  a  roar 
that  sounded  dangerous.  I  was  tumbling  along  with  the 
crowd,  quite  ready  for  a  scrimmage — I  rather  enjoy  a  fight 
now  and  then, — and  all  at  once  some  chap  sang  out  just 
in  front,  4  Let's  burst  up  the  blooming  show  ! ' — only  he 
used  a  stronger  word.  And  a  lot  of  us  yelled  hooray,  and 
to  it  we  went.  I  don't  mean  I  had  a  hand  in  the  pillaging 
and  smashing, — it  wouldn't  have  done  for  a  man  just 
starting  in  business  to  be  up  at  the  police-court, — but  I 
looked  on  and  laughed — laughed  till  I  could  hardly  stand  ! 
They  set  to  work  on  the  refreshment  place.  It  was  a  scene 
if  you  like !  Fellows  knocking  off  the  heads  of  bottles, 
and  drinking  all  they  could,  then  pouring  the  rest  on  the 
ground.  Glasses  and  decanters  flying  right  and  left, — 
sandwiches  and  buns,  and  I  don't  know  what,  pelting 
about.  They  splintered  all  the  small  wood  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on,  and  set  fire  to  it,  and  before  you  could  say 
Jack  Robinson  the  whole  place  was  blazing.  The  bobbies 
got  it  pretty  warm — bottles  and  stones  and  logs  of  wood ; 
I  saw  one  poor  chap  with  the  side  of  his  face  cut  clean 
open.  It  does  one  good,  a  real  stirring-up  like  that ;  I  feel 
better  to-day  than  for  the  last  month.  And  the  swearing 
that  went  on  !  It's  a  long  time  since  I  heard  such  down- 
right, hearty,  solid  swearing.  There  was  one  chap  I  kept 
near,  and  he  swore  for  a  full  hour  without  stopping,  ex- 
cept when  he  had  a  bottle  at  his  mouth  ;  he  only  stopped 
when  he  was  speechless  with  liquor." 

"I  wish  I'd  been  there,"  said  Miss  French  gaily.  "It 
must  have  been  no  end  of  fun." 

"A  right  down  good  spree.     And  it  wasn't  over  till 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

about  eight  o'clock.  I  stayed  till  the  police  had  cleared 
the  grounds,  and  then  came  home,  laughing  all  the  way. 
It  did  me  good,  I  tell  you  !  " 

u  Well,  shall  we  go  and  see  the  lawyer  ? "  suggested 
Beatrice. 

"  Right  you  are. — Have  a  drink  first  ?  Nice  quiet  place 
round  in  Fleet  Street — glass  of  wine.  No  ?  As  you 
please,  old  chum. — Think  this  shop'll  do,  don't  you  ? 
You  must  come  round  when  it's  finished.  But  I  daresay 
you'll  be  here  many  a  time — on  biz." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay." 

And  as  they  went  down  the  stairs,  Crewe  laughed  again 
at  his  recollections  of  yesterday's  sport. 


VI 

GUSTS  of  an  October  evening  swept  about  the  square  of 
the  old  Inn,  and  made  rushes  at  the  windows ;  all  the  more 
cosy  seemed  it  here  in  Tarrant's  room,  where  a  big  fire,  fed 
into  smokeless  placidity,  purred  and  crackled.  Pipe  in 
mouth,  Tarrant  lay  back  in  his  big  chair,  gracefully  indo- 
lent as  ever.  Opposite  him,  lamp-light  illuminating  her 
face  on  one  side,  and  fire-gloom  on  the  other,  Nancy  turned 
over  an  illustrated  volume,  her  husband's  gift  to-day. 
Many  were  the  presents  he  had  bestowed  upon  her,  costly 
some  of  them,  all  flattering  the  recipient  by  a  presumption 
of  taste  and  intelligence. 

She  had  been  here  since  early  in  the  afternoon.  It  was 
now  near  seven  o'clock. 

Nancy  looked  at  the  pictures,  but  inattentively,  her 
brows  slightly  knitted,  and  her  lips  often  on  the  point  of 
speech  that  concerned  some  other  matter.  Since  the  sum- 
mer holiday  she  had  grown  a  trifle  thinner  in  face ;  her 
beauty  was  no  longer  allied  with  perfect  health ;  a  heavi- 
ness appeared  on  her  eyelids.  Of  course  she  wore  the  garb 
of  mourning,  arid  its  effect  was  to  emphasise  the  maturing 
change  manifest  in  her  features. 


162  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

For  several  minutes  there  had  passed  no  word,  but 
Tarrant's  face,  no  less  than  his  companion's,  signalled  dis- 
cussion in  suspense.  No  unfriendly  discussion,  yet  one 
that  excited  emotional  activity  in  both  of  them.  The 
young  man,  his  pipe-hand  falling  to  his  knee,  first  broke 
silence. 

"I  look  at  it  in  this  way.  We  ought  to  regard  our- 
selves as  married  people  living  under  exceptionally  fa- 
vourable circumstances.  One  has  to  bear  in  mind  the 
brutal  fact  that  man  and  wife,  as  a  rule,  see  a  great  deal 
too  much  of  each  other — thence  most  of  the  ills  of  married 
life :  squabblings,  discontents,  small  or  great  disgusts, 
leading  often  enough  to  alti  gua'i.  People  get  to  think 
themselves  victims  of  incompatibility,  when  they  are 
merely  suffering  from  a  foolish  custom — the  habit  of  be- 
ing perpetually  together.  In  fact,  it's  an  immoral  custom. 
What  does  immorality  mean  but  anything  that  tends  to 
kill  love,  to  harden  hearts  ?  Even  an  ordinary  honeymoon 
generally  ends  in  quarrel — as  it  certainly  ought  to.  You 
and  I  escape  all  that.  Each  of  us  lives  a  separate  life, 
with  the  result  that  we  like  each  other  better  as  time  goes 
on ;  I  speak  for  myself,  at  all  events.  I  look  forward  to 
our  meetings.  I  open  the  door  to  you  with  as  fresh  a  feel- 
ing of  pleasure  as  when  you  came  first.  If  we  had  been 
ceaselessly  together  day  and  night — well,  you  know  the 
result  as  well  as  I  do." 

He  spoke  with  indulgent  gravity,  in  the  tone  of  kind- 
ness to  which  his  voice  was  naturally  attuned.  And 
Nancy's  reply,  though  it  expressed  a  stronger  feeling, 
struck  the  same  harmonious  note. 

"  I  can  agree  with  all  that.  But  it  applies  to  people 
married  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  was  speaking  of  ourselves, 
placed  as  we  are." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  like  the  concealment,"  said  Tarrant. 
"  For  one  thing,  there's  a  suggestion  of  dishonour  about  it. 
We've  gone  over  all  that — 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  for  a  moment.  It  isn't  really 
dishonourable.  My  father  could  never  have  objected  to 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  1(53 

you  for  my  husband.  He  only  wanted  to  guard  me — 
Mary  says  so,  and  he  told  her  everything.  He  thought  me 
a  silly,  nighty  girl,  and  was  afraid  I  should  be  trapped  for 
the  sake  of  my  money.  I  wish — oh  how  I  wish  I  had  had 
the  courage  to  tell  him !  He  would  have  seen  you,  and 
liked  and  trusted  you — how  could  he  help  ? " 

"  It  might  have  been  better — but  who  knows  whether 
he  would  have  seen  me  with  your  eyes,  Nancy  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes.    But  I  was  going  to  say — 

She  hesitated. 

"  Say  on." 

"  There  are  so  many  difficulties  before  us,  dear." 

"  Not  if  we  continue  to  think  of  each  other  as  we  do 
now.  Do  you  mean  it  might  be  discovered  ? " 

"  Yes,  through  no  fault  of  ours." 

She  hesitated  again. 

"  Quite  sure  you  haven't  told  anybody  ? " 

"  No  one." 

Tarrant  had  a  doubt  on  this  point.  He  strongly  sus- 
pected that  Jessica  Morgan  knew  the  truth,  but  he  shrank 
from  pressing  Nancy  to  an  avowal  of  repeated  falsehood. 

"  Then  it's  very  unlikely  we  should  be  found  out.  Who 
would  dream  of  tracking  you  here,  for  instance  ?  And 
suppose  we  were  seen  together  in  the  street  or  in  the  coun- 
try, who  would  suspect  anything  more  than  love-making  ? 
and  that  is  not  forbidden  you." 

«  No.     But " 

"But?" 

"  But  suppose  I—- 
She rose,  crossed  to  him,  seated  herself  on  his  knee  and 
put  an  arm  about  his  neck.  Before  she  had  spoken  an- 
other word,  Tarrant  understood ;  the  smile  on  his  face  lost 
its  spontaneity ;  a  bitter  taste  seemed  to  distort  his  lips. 

"  You  think — you  are  afraid — 

He  heard  a  monosyllable,  and  sat  silent.  This  indeed 
had  not  entered  into  his  calculations ;  but  why  not  ?  He 
could  hardly  say ;  he  had  ignored  the  not  unimportant 
detail,  as  it  lurked  among  possibilities.  Perhaps  had  will- 


164  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

ingly  ignored  it,  as  introducing  a  complication  oppressive 
to  his  indolence,  to  his  hodiernal  philosophy.  And  now 
he  arraigned  mother-nature,  the  very  divinity  whom  hith- 
erto he  had  called  upon  to  justify  him.  All  at  once  he 
grew  cold  to  Nancy.  The  lulled  objections  to  matrimony 
awoke  in  him  again ;  again  he  felt  that  he  had  made  a 
fool  of  himself.  Nancy  was  better  than  he  had  thought ; 
he  either  loved  her,  or  felt  something  towards  her,  not 
easily  distinguishable  from  love.  His  inferior  she  re- 
mained, but  not  in  the  sense  he  had  formerly  attributed  to 
the  word.  Her  mind  and  heart  excelled  the  idle  concep- 
tion he  had  formed  of  them.  But  Nancy  was  not  his  wife, 
as  the  world  understands  that  relation ;  merely  his  mis- 
tress, and  as  a  mistress  he  found  her  charming,  lovable. 
What  she  now  hinted  at,  would  shatter  the  situation.  Tar- 
rant  thought  not  of  the  peril  to  her  material  prospects  ;  on 
that  score  he  was  indifferent,  save  in  so  far  as  Mr.  Lord's 
will  helped  to  maintain  their  mutual  independence.  But 
he  feared  for  his  liberty,  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  sec- 
ond, abhorred  the  change  that  must  come  over  Nancy  her- 
self. Nancy  a  mother— he  repelled  the  image,  as  though 
it  degraded  her. 

Delicacy,  however,  constrained  him  to  a  disguise  of  these 
emotions.  He  recognised  the  human  sentiments  which 
should  have  weighed  with  him ;  like  a  man  of  cultivated 
intelligence,  he  admitted  their  force,  their  beauty. 

Nancy  did  not  stay  much  longer  ;  they  parted  without 
mention  of  the  subject  uppermost  in  their  thoughts. 

They  had  no  stated  times  of  meeting.  Tarrant  sent  an 
invitation  whenever  it  pleased  him.  When  the  next 
arrived,  in  about  a  week,  Nancy  made  reply  that  she  did 
not  feel  well  enough  to  leave  home.  It  was  the  briefest 
letter  Tarrant  had  yet  received  from  her,  and  the  least 
affectionate.  He  kept  silence  for  a  few  days,  and  wrote 
again.  This  time  Nancy  responded  as  usual,  and  came. 

To  the  involuntary  question  in  his  eyes,  hers  answered 
unmistakably.  For  the  first  few  minutes  they  said  very 
little  to  each  other.  Tarrant  was  struggling  with  repul- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  155 

sions  and  solicitudes  of  which  he  felt  more  than  half 
ashamed  ;  Nancy,  reticent  for  many  reasons,  not  the  least 
of  them  a  resentful  pride,  which  for  the  moment  overcame 
her  fondness,  endeavoured  to  speak  of  trivial  things. 
They  kept  apart,  and  at  length  the  embarrassment  of  the 
situation  held  them  both  mute. 

With  a  nervous  movement,  the  young  man  pushed 
forward  the  chair  on  which  Nancy  usually  sat. 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  look  well." 

Nancy  turned  to  the  window.  She  had  unbuttoned 
her  jacket,  and  taken  off  her  gloves,  but  went  no  further 
in  the  process  of  preparing  herself  for  the  ordinary  stay 
of  some  hours. 

"  Did  something  in  my  letter  displease  you  ? "  inquired 
her  husband. 

"  You  mean — because  I  didn't  come  ?  No  ;  I  really 
didn't  feel  well  enough." 

Tarrant  hesitated,  but  the  softer  feeling  prevailed  with 
him.  He  helped  to  remove  her  jacket,  seated  her  by  the 
fire,  and  led  her  to  talk. 

"  So  there's  no  doubt  of  it  ?  " 

Her  silence  made  answer. 

u  Then  of  course  there's  just  as  little  doubt  as  to  what 
we  must  do." 

His  voice  had  not  a  convincing  sincerity ;  he  waited 
for  the  reply. 

"  You  mean  that  we  can't  keep  the  secret  ? " 

"  How  is  it  possible  ? " 

"  But  you  are  vexed  about  it.  You  don't  speak  to  me 
as  you  used  to.  I  don't  think  you  ever  will  again." 

u  It  will  make  no  change  111  we,"  said  Tarrant,  with 
resolute  good  humour.  "  All  I  want  to  be  sure  of  is  that 
you  are  quite  prepared  for  the  change  in  your  pros- 
pects." 

"  Are  2/ow,  dear  ?  " 

Her  tone  and  look  deprived  the  inquiry  of  unpleas- 
ant implication.  He  answered  her  with  a  laugh. 

"You  know  exactly  how  I  regard  it.     In  one  way 


166  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

1  should  feel  relief.  Of  course  I  don't  like  the  thought 
that  I  shall  have  caused  you  to  suffer  such  a  loss." 

"  I  should  never  have  that  thought.  But  are  you  quite 
sure  about  the  result  to  yourself  ?  You  remember  saying 
that  you  couldn't  be  certain  how " 

"  How  it  will  be  taken  at  Champion  Hill  ?  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  the  latest  report  from  there.  It  is  very 
doubtful  whether  I  should  ever  have  to  break  the  news." 

They  did  not  look  at  each  other. 

"  Everything,  in  that  quarter,  must  be  long  since 
settled.  Pray  remember  that  I  have  no  vast  expectations. 
Quite  certainly,  it  won't  be  a  large  fortune ;  very  likely 
not  more  than  your  own.  But  enough  to  live  on,  no 
doubt.  I  know  the  value  of  money — no  man  better.  It 
would  be  pleasant  enough  to  play  with  thousands  a  year. 
But  I  don't  grumble  so  long  as  I  have  a  competency." 

Nancy  meditated,  and  sighed. 

"  Oh,  it's  a  pity.  Father  never  meant  me  to  be  penni- 
less if  I  married  wisely." 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

They  both  meditated. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  possible — would  it !  " 

"  Why,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh,  "  last  time  you 
were  here  you  spoke  in  quite  the  other  way.  You  were 
utterly  miserable  at  the  thought  of  living  through  it 
alone." 

"  Yes — I  don't  know  whether  I  could — even  if 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  I've  been  talking  with  Mary,"  she  replied,  after  an 
uneasy  pause.  "  She  has  lived  with  us  so  long  ;  and  since 
father's  death  it  seems  quite  natural  to  make  a  friend  of 
her.  No  one  could  be  more  devoted  to  me  than  she  is.  I 
believe  there's  nothing  she  wouldn't  do.  I  believe  I 
might  trust  her  with  any  secret." 

The  obvious  suggestion  demanded  thought. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Tarrant,  looking  up,  "  have  you 
seen  your  aunt  again  ? " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  167 

Nancy's  face  changed  to  a  cold  expression. 

"  No.     And  I  don't  think  I  shall." 

"  Probably  you  were  as  little  sympathetic  to  her  as  she 
to  you." 

"  I  don't  like  her,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  I've  had  curious  thoughts  about  that  lady,"  said 
Tarrant,  smiling.  "  The  mystery,  it  seems  to  me,  is  by  no 
means  solved.  You  think  she  really  is  your  aunt  ?  " 

k'  Impossible  to  doubt  it.  Any  one  could  see  her  like- 
ness to  Horace  at  once." 

"  Ah,  you  didn't  mention  that.  I  had  a  fear  that  she 
might  be  simply  an  adventuress,  with  an  eye  to  your 
brother's  money." 

"  She  is  what  she  says,  I'm  sure.  But  I  shall  never  ask 
her  to  come  and  see  me  again,  and  I  don't  think  she'll 
want  to.  That  would  be  fortunate  if — if  we  wished — 

Tarrant  nodded.  At  the  same  moment  they  heard  a 
sound  that  startled  them. 

u  That's  a  knock  at  the  door,"  said  Nancy,  rising  as  if 
to  escape. 

"  So  it  is.  Banging  with  a  stick.  Let  him  bang.  It 
must  be  a  stranger  or  he'd  respect  the  oak." 

They  sat  listening.  The  knock  sounded  again,  loud 
and  prolonged.  Tarrant  joked  about  it ;  but  a  third  time 
came  the  summons. 

"  I  may  as  well  go  and  see  who  it  is." 

"  Oh — you  won't  let  any  one — 

'*  Of  course  not.     Sit  quietly." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  room-door  behind  him,  and 
opened  the  heavy  door  which  should  have  ensured  his 
privacy.  For  five  minutes  he  was  absent,  then  returned 
with  a  face  portending  news. 

"  It  was  Vawdrey.  He  knew  my  habit  of  sporting  the 
oak,  and  wouldn't  go  away  till  he  had  made  sure.  My 
grandmother  is  dying.  They  telegraphed  to  Vawdrey  in 
the  City,  and  he  came  here  at  once  to  tell  me.  I  must  go. 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  too  late." 

"  What  did  he  think  of  your  keeping  him  outside  ? " 


168  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  made  some  sort  of  excuse.  He's  a  good-natured  fel- 
low ;  it  didn't  matter.  Stay  a  little  after  I'm  gone ;  stay 
as  long  as  you  like,  in  fact.  You  can  pull  to  the  inner 
door  when  you  go." 

"  What  did  the  telegram  say  ? " 

" '  Mrs.  Tarrant  sinking.  Come  immediately.'  Of 
course,  we  expected  it.  It's  raining  hard  :  wait  and  see  if 
it  stops ;  you  must  take  care  of  yourself." 

For  this,  Nancy  was  not  slow  in  exhibiting  her  grati- 
tude, which  served  as  mask  of  the  pleasure  she  could  not 
decently  betray.  When  her  husband  had  hastened  off, 
she  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  thought ;  then,  alone  here  for 
the  first  time,  she  began  to  walk  about  the  rooms,  and 
to  make  herself  more  intimately  acquainted  with  their 
contents. 


VII 

WHILST  she  was  thus  occupied,  darkness  came  on.  She 
did  not  care  to  light  the  lamp,  so  made  herself  ready,  and 
stole  forth. 

The  rain,  had  ceased.  Walking  alone  at  night  was  a 
pleasure  in  which  she  now  indulged  herself  pretty  fre- 
quently ;  at  such  times  Mary  Woodruff  believed  her  in 
the  company  of  Miss  Morgan.  The  marked  sobriety  of 
her  demeanour  since  Mr.  Lord's  death,  and  the  friendli- 
ness, even  the  affection,  she  evinced  in  their  common  life 
at  home,  had  set  Mary's  mind  at  ease  concerning  her.  No 
murmur  at  her  father's  will  had  escaped  Nancy,  in  this 
respect  very  unlike  her  brother,  who,  when  grief  was  for- 
gotten, declared  himself  ill-used;  she  seemed  perfectly 
content  with  the  conditions  laid  upon  her,  and  the  sincer- 
ity of  her  mourning  could  not  be  doubted.  Anxious  to 
conciliate  the  girl  in  every  honest  way,  Mary  behaved  to 
her  with  the  same  external  respect  as  ever,  and  without  a 
hint  of  express  guardianship.  The  two  were  on  excellent 
terms.  It  seemed  likely  that  before  long  they  would  have 
the  house  to  themselves ;  already  Horace  had  spoken  of 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  169 

taking  lodgings  in  a  part  of  London  more  congruous 
with  the  social  aspirations  encouraged  by  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Damerel. 

From  Chancery  Lane  she  passed  into  Fleet  Street,  and 
sauntered  along  with  observation  of  shop-windows.  She 
was  unspeakably  relieved  by  the  events  of  the  afternoon  ; 
it  would  now  depend  upon  her  own  choice  whether  she 
preserved  her  secret,  or  declared  herself  a  married  woman. 
Her  husband  had  proved  himself  generous  as  well  as  lov- 
ing; yes,  she  repeated  to  herself,  generous  and  loving; 
her  fears  and  suspicions  had  been  baseless.  Mrs.  Tarrant's 
death  freed  them  from  all  sordid  considerations.  A  short 
time,  perhaps  a  day  or  two,  might  put  an  end  to  irregulari- 
ties, and  enable  her  to  hold  up  her  head  once  more. 

Feeling  hungry,  she  entered  a  restaurant,  and  dined. 
Not  carelessly,  but  with  fastidious  choice  of  viands.  This 
was  enjoyable ;  she  began  to  look  more  like  herself  of  a 
few  months  ago. 

She  would  return  to  Camberwell  by  train  from  Lud- 
gate  Hill.  At  the  circus,  crowding  traffic  held  her  back 
for  a  minute  or  two ;  just  as  she  ran  forward,  a  familiar 
voice  caused  her  to  stop  again.  She  became  flurried,  lost 
her  head,  stood  still  amid  a  tumult  of  omnibuses,  cabs  and 
carts;  but  a  hand  grasped  her  by  the  arm,  and  led  her 
safely  to  the  opposite  pavement. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  shouting  at  me  in  the  street  ? " 
were  her  first  words. 

The  person  addressed  was  Luckworth  Crewe ;  he  had 
by  no  means  anticipated  such  wrathful  greeting,  and  stood 
in  confusion. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Lord.  I  didn't  think  I 
shouted.  I  only  meant  to  call  your  attention." 

"  Why  should  you  call  my  attention  ? "  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  anger ;  she  regarded  him  as  though  he 
were  a  stranger  guilty  of  mere  insolence.  u  I  don't  wish 
to  speak  to  you." 

With  astonishment,  Crewe  found  himself  alone.  But 
a  rebuff  such  as  this,  so  irrational  as  he  thought  it,  so  en- 


170  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

tirely  out  of  keeping  with  Miss  Lord's  behaviour,  he  could 
by  110  means  accept.  Nancy  was  walking"  towards  the 
railway-station  ;  he  followed.  He  watched  her  as  she  took 
a  ticket,  then  put  himself  in  her  way,  with  all  the  humility 
of  countenance  he  could  command. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  I  offended  you.  It  wasn't  the  right 
thing  to  do ;  I  ought  to  have  waited  till  you  were  across. 
I'm  a  blundering  sort  of  fellow  in  those  things.  Do  let 
me  beg  your  pardon,  and  forgive  me." 

She  was  calmer  now,  though  still  tremulous.  But  for 
the  attack  of  nervousness,  she  would  have  met  Crewe  with 
nothing  worse  than  a  slight  reserve,  to  mark  a  change  in 
their  relations.  Very  soon  after  her  father's  death  he  had 
written  a  becoming  letter,  though  it  smacked  of  commer- 
cial phraseology.  To  the  hope  expressed  in  it,  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  call  upon  her  in  a  few  weeks'  time, 
Nancy  made  no  reply.  A  fortnight  later  he  wrote  again, 
this  time  reminding  her,  with  modest  propriety,  of  what 
had  occurred  between  them  before  she  left  town  in  August. 
Nancy  responded,  and  in  grave,  friendly  language,  begged 
him  to  think  of  her  110  more ;  he  must  not  base  the  slight- 
est hope  upon  anything  she  might  have  said.  To  her  sur- 
prise, Crewe  held  his  peace,  and  she  saw  him  now  for  the 
first  time  since  their  ascent  of  the  Monument. 

"  I'm  ashamed  that  I  lost  my  temper,  Mr.  Crewe.  I  am 
in  a  hurry  to  get  home." 

In  the  booking-office  at  Ludgate  Hill  it  is  not  easy  to 
detain,  by  chivalrous  discourse,  a  lady  bent  on  escaping ; 
but  Crewe  attempted  it.  He  subdued  his  voice,  spoke 
rapidly  and  with  emotion,  implored  that  he  might  be 
heard  for  a  moment.  Would  she  not  permit  him  to  call 
upon  her  ?  He  had  waited,  respecting  her  seclusion.  He 
asked  for  nothing  whatever  but  permission  to  call,  as  any 
acquaintance  might. 

"  Have  you  heard  I  have  opened  an  office  in  Farring- 
don  Street  ?  I  should  so  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it — what 
I'm  doing — 

"  No  one  calls  to  see  me,"  said  Nancy,  with  firmness. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

u  I  wish  to  live  quite  alone.  I'm  very  sorry  to  seem  un- 
friendly." 

"  Is  it  anything  I've  done  ? " 

"  No — nothing  whatever.  I  assure  you,  nothing.  Let 
us  say  good-bye  ;  I  can't  stop  another  moment." 

They  shook  hands  and  so  parted. 

"  You're  back  early,"  said  Mary,  when  Nancy  entered 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Yes.  I  left  Jessica  to  her  books  sooner  than  usual. 
The  examination  draws  near." 

Quiet,  sad,  diligent  ever,  Mary  kept  unchanged  the  old 
domestic  routine.  There  was  the  same  perfect  order,  the 
same  wholesome  economy,  as  when  she  worked  under  the 
master's  eyes.  Nancy  had  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  the 
admirable  care  with  which  she  was  surrounded  ;  she  took 
it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  never  having  considered  the 
difference  between  her  own  home  and  those  of  her  ac- 
quaintances. 

Horace  had  dined,  and  was  gone  out  again.  They 
talked  of  him ;  Mary  said  that  he  had  spoken  of  moving 
into  lodgings  very  soon. 

"  Of  course  he  doesn't  tell  us  everything,"  said  Nancy. 
"  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  he's  going  to  leave  the  office,  but 
how  he  means  to  live  I  don't  understand.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Damerel  will  give  him  money,  or  lend  it  him.  I  only 
hope  she  may  break  it  off  between  him  and  Fanny." 

"Hasn't  he  told  you  that  Fanny  is  often  with  Mrs. 
Damerel  ? " 

"  With  her  ? "  Nancy  exclaimed.  "  He  never  said  a 
word  of  it  to  me." 

"  He  said  so  to  me  this  evening,  and  laughed  when  I 
looked  surprised." 

"  Well  then,  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  what's  go- 
ing on.  We  can't  do  anything." 

About  nine  o'clock  the  servant  entered  the  room,  bring- 
ing Miss  Lord  a  note,  which  had  just  been  left  by  a  cab- 
driver.  Nancy,  seeing  that  the  address  was  in  Tarrant's 
hand,  opened  it  with  a  flutter  of  joy  ;  such  a  proceeding  as 


172  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

this,  openly  sending  a  note  by  a  messenger,  could  only 
mean  that  her  husband  no  longer  cared  to  preserve  se- 
crecy. To  her  astonishment,  the  envelope  contained  but 
a  hurried  line. 

"  Not  a  word  yet  to  any  one.  Without  fail,  come  to- 
morrow afternoon,  at  four." 

With  what  show  of  calmness  she  could  command,  she 
looked  up  at  her  companion. 

"  The  idea  of  his  sending  in  this  way !  It's  that  Mr. 
Crewe  I've  told  you  of.  I  met  him  as  I  was  coming  home, 
and  had  to  speak  to  him  rather  sharply  to  get  rid  of  him. 
Here  comes  his  apology,  foolish  man  !  " 

Living  in  perpetual  falsehood,  Nancy  felt  no  shame  at 
a  fiction  such  as  this.  Mere  truth-telling  had  never  seemed 
to  her  a  weighty  matter  of  the  law.  And  she  was  now 
grown  expert  in  lies.  But  Tarrant's  message  disturbed 
her  gravely.  Something  unforeseen  must  have  happened 
— something,  perhaps,  calamitous.  She  passed  a  miserable 
night. 

When  she  ascended  the  stairs  at  Staple  Inn,  next  after- 
noon, it  wanted  ten  minutes  to  four.  As  usual  at  her 
coming,  the  outer  door  stood  open,  exposing  the  door  with 
the  knocker.  She  had  just  raised  her  hand,  when,  with  a 
sound  of  voices  from  inside,  the  door  opened,  and  Tarrant 
appeared  in  company  with  a  stranger.  Terror-stricken, 
she  stepped  back.  Tarrant,  after  a  glance,  paid  110  atten- 
tion to  her. 

"  All  right,"  he  was  saying  to  his  friend,  "  I  shall  see 
you  in  a  day  or  two.  Good-bye,  old  man." 

The  stranger  had  observed  Nancy,  but  withheld  his 
eyes  from  her,  and  quickly  vanished  down  the  stairs. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  she  whispered. 

"  I  told  you  four  o'clock." 

"  It  is  four." 

"  No — ten  minutes  to  at  least.  It  doesn't  matter,  but  if 
you  had  been  punctual  you  wouldn't  have  had  a  fright." 

Nancy  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  white  and  shaking. 
Tarrant's  voice,  abruptly  reproachful,  affected  her  scarcely 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  173 

less  than  the  preceding  shock.  In  the  struggle  to  recover 
herself  she  sobbed  and  choked,  and  at  length  burst  into 
tears.  Tarrant  spoke  impatiently. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  Surely  you  are  not  so  child- 
ish  " 

She  stood  up,  and  went  into  the  bedroom,  where  she 
remained  for  several  minutes,  returning  at  length  without 
her  jacket,  but  with  her  hat  still  on. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it ;  and  you  shouldn't  speak  to  me  in 
that  way.  I  have  felt  ill  all  the  morning." 

Looking  at  her,  the  young  man  .said  to  himself,  that 
love  was  one  thing,  wedded  life  another.  He  could  make 
allowance  for  Nancy's  weakness — but  it  was  beyond  his 
power  to  summon  the  old  warmth  and  tenderness.  If 
henceforth  he  loved  her,  it  must  be  with  husband's  love — 
a  phrase  which  signified  to  him  something  as  distinct  as 
possible  from  the  ardour  he  had  knoAvn ;  a  moral  attach- 
ment instead  of  a  passionate  desire. 

And  there  was  another  reason  for  his  intolerant  mood. 

"You  hadn't  spoken  to  any  one  before  you  got  my 
note  ? " 

"  No. — Why  are  you  treating  me  like  this  ?  Are  you 
ashamed  that  your  friend  saw  me  ? " 

"  Ashamed  ?  not  at  all." 

"  Who  did  he  think  I  was  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about  you, 
at  all  events.  As  you  may  guess,  I  have  something  not 
very  pleasant  to  tell.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind  ;  it  was 
only  the  surprise  at  seeing  you  when  I  opened  the  door. 
I  had  calculated  the  exact  time.  But  never  mind.  You 
look  cold ;  warm  yourself  at  the  fire.  You  shall  drink  a 
glass  of  wine ;  it  will  put  your  nerves  right  again." 

"  No,  I  want  nothing.     Tell  me  at  once  what  it  is." 

But  Tarrant  quietly  brought  a  bottle  and  glass  from 
his  cupboard.  Nancy  again  refused,  pettishly. 

"  Until  you  have  drunk,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  of  self- 
will,  "  I  shall  tell  you  nothing." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I've  done  to  make  you  like  this." 
12 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Her  sobs  and  tears  returned.  After  a  moment  of  im- 
patience, Tarrant  went  up  to  her  with  the  glass,  laid  a 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  kissed  her. 

"Now,  come,  be  reasonable.  We  have  uncommonly 
serious  things  to  talk  about." 

u  What  did  your  friend  think  of  me  ? " 

"  That  you  were  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  he  had  ever 
been  privileged  to  see,  and  that  I  was  an  enviable  fellow 
to  have  such  a  visitor.  There  now,  another  sip,  and  let  us 
have  some  colour  back  into  your  cheeks.  There's  bad 
news  Nancy ;  confoundedly  bad  news,  dear  girl.  My 
grandmother  was  dead  when  I  got  there.  Well,  the  fool- 
ish old  woman  has  been  muddling  her  affairs  for  a  long 
time,  speculating  here  and  there  without  asking  any  one's 
advice,  and  so  on ;  and  the  result  is  that  she  leaves  noth- 
ing at  all." 

Nancy  was  mute. 

"  Less  than  nothing,  indeed.  She  owed  a  few  hundreds 
that  she  had  no  means  of  paying.  The  joke  of  the  thing 
is,  that  she  has  left  an  elaborate  will,  with  legacies  to  half- 
a-dozen  people,  myself  first  of  all.  If  she  had  been  so 
good  as  to  die  two  years  ago,  I  should  have  come  in  for  a 
thousand  a  year  or  so.  No  one  suspected  what  was  going 
on ;  she  never  allowed  Vawdrey,  the  one  man  who  could 
have  been  useful  to  her,  to  have  an  inkling  of  the  affair. 
An  advertising  broker  got  her  in  his  clutches.  Vawdrey's 
lawyer  has  been  going  through  her  papers,  and  finds  every- 
thing quite  intelligible.  The  money  has  gone  in  lumps, 
good  after  bad.  Swindling,  of  course,  but  perfectly  legal 
swindling,  nothing  to  be  done  about  it.  A  minute  or  two 
before  her  death  she  gasped  out  some  words  of  revelation  to 
the  nurse,  enough  to  set  Vawdrey  on  the  track,  when  he 
was  told." 

Still  the  listener  said  nothing. 

"Well,  I  had  a  talk  with  Vawdrey.  He's  a  black- 
guard, but  not  a  bad  fellow.  Wished  he  could  help  me, 
but  didn't  quite  see  how,  unless  I  would  go  into  business. 
However,  he  had  a  suggestion  to  make." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  175 

For  Nancy,  the  pause  was  charged  with  apprehensions. 
She  seemed  to  discover  in  her  husband's  face  a  purpose 
which  he  knew  would  excite  her  resistance. 

"  He  and  I  have  often  talked  about  my  friend  Suther- 
land, in  the  Bahamas,  and  Vawdrey  has  an  idea  that 
there'll  be  a  profitable  opening  in  that  quarter,  before  long. 
Sutherland  has  written  to  me  lately  that  he  thinks  of  be- 
stirring himself  in  the  projects  I've  told  you  about;  he 
has  got  the  old  man's  consent  to  borrow  money  on  the 
property.  Now  Vawdrey,  naturally  enough,  would  like 
Sutherland  to  join  him  in  starting  a  company;  the 
thoughts  of  such  men  run  only  on  companies.  So  he 
offers,  if  I  will  go  out  to  the  Bahamas  for  a  month  or  two, 
and  look  about  me,  and  put  myself  in  a  position  to  make 
some  kind  of  report — he  offers  to  pay  my  expenses.  Of 
course  if  the  idea  came  to  anything,  and  a  company  got 
floated,  I  should  have  shares." 

Again  he  paused.  The  listener  had  wide,  miserable 
eyes. 

"  Well,  I  told  him  at  once  that  I  would  accept  the  pro- 
posal. I  have  no  right  to  refuse.  All  I  possess  in  the 
world,  at  this  moment,  is  about  sixty  pounds.  If  I  sold 
all  my  books  and  furniture,  they  might  bring  another 
sixty  or  so.  What,  then,  is  to  become  of  me ;  I  must  set 
to  work  at  something,  and  here's  the  first  work  that  comes 
to  hand.  But,"  his  voice  softened,  "this  puts  us  face  to 
face  with  a  very  grave  question ;  doesn't  it  ?  Are  we  to 
relinquish  your  money,  and  be  both  of  us  penniless  ?  Or 
is  there  any  possibility  of  saving  it  ? " 

"  How  can  we  ?    How  could  the  secret  be  kept  ? " 

Voice  and  countenance  joined  in  utter  dismay. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me,"  said  Tarrant  slowly,  "  a  down- 
right impossibility.  It  might  be  managed,  with  the  help 
of  your  friend  Mary,  and  granting  that  you  yourself  have 
the  courage.  But " — he  made  a  large  gesture — "  of  course 
I  can't  exact  any  such  thing  of  you.  It  must  seem  prac- 
ticable to  you  yourself." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  if  my  money  is  lost  ? " 


176  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Don't  say  we."  He  smiled  generously,  perhaps  too 
generously.  "  A  man  must  support  his  wife.  I  shall  ar- 
range it  somehow,  of  course,  so  that  you  have  no  anxiety. 
But- 

His  voice  dropped. 

"  Lionel ! "  She  sprang  up  and  approached  him  as  he 
stood  by  the  fireplace.  "  You  won't  leave  me,  dear  ?  How 
can  you  think  of  going  so  far  away — for  months — and  leav- 
ing me  as  I  am  now  ?  Oh,  you  won't  leave  me  ! " 

He  arched  his  eyebrows,  and  smiled  gently. 

"  If  that's  how  you  look  at  it — well,  I  must  stay." 

"  You  can  do  something  here,"  Nancy  continued,  with 
rapid  pleading.  "  You  can  write  for  the  papers.  You  al- 
ways said  you  could — yes,  you  did  say  so.  We  don't 
need  very  much  to  live  upon — at  first.  I  shall  be  con- 
tent  " 

"  A  moment.  You  mean  that  the  money  must  be  aban- 
doned." 

She  had  meant  it,  but  under  his  look  her  confused 
thoughts  took  a  new  direction. 

"  No.  We  needn't  lose  it.  Only  stay  near  me,  and  I 
will  keep  the  secret,  through  everything.  You  will  only 
need,  then,  just  to  support  yourself,  and  that  is  so  easy.  I 
will  tell  Mary  how  it  is.  She  can  be  trusted,  I  am  sure 
she  can.  She  would  do  anything  for  me.  She  knows  that 
father  was  not  thinking  of  a  man  such  as  you.  It  would 
be  cruelly  wrong  if  I  lost  everything.  I  will  tell  her,  and 
she  will  help  me.  Scarcely  any  one  comes  to  the  house, 
as  it  is ;  and  I  will  pretend  to  have  bad  health,  and  shut 
myself  up.  And  then,  when  the  time  comes,  Mary  will  go 
away  with  me,  and — and  the  child  shall  be  taken  care  of 
by  some  people  we  can  trust  to  be  kind  to  it.  Horace  is 
going  to  live  in  lodgings ;  and  Mrs.  Damerel,  I  am  sure, 
won't  come  to  see  me  again ;  and  I  can  get  rid  of  other 
people.  The  Barmbys  shall  think  I  am  sulking  about  the 
will ;  I'm  sure  they  think  already  that  I  dislike  them  be- 
cause of  it.  Let  them  think  it ;  I  will  refuse,  presently,  to 
see  them  at  all.  It's  only  a  few  months.  If  I  tell  people 


IN  THE    YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  177 

I'm  not  well,  nobody  will  feel  surprised  if  I  go  away  for  a 
month  or  two — now — soon.  Mary  would  go  with  me,  of 
course.  I  might  go  for  December  and  January.  Father 
didn't  mean  I  was  never  to  have  change  of  air.  Then 
there  would  be  February  and  March  at  home.  And  then 
I  might  go  away  again  till  near  the  end  of  May.  I'm  sure 
we  can  manag'e  it." 

She  stopped,  breathless.  Tarrant,  who  had  listened 
writh  averted  face,  turned  and  spoke  judicially. 

"  There's  one  thing  you're  forgetting,  Nancy.  Do  you 
propose  that  we  shall  never  acknowledge  the  child  ?  Re- 
member that  even  if  you  were  bold  enough,  after  our  sec- 
ond marriage,  to  acknowledge  it  in  the  face  of  scandal — 
that  wouldn't  be  safe.  Any  one,  if  suspicion  is  aroused, 
can  find  out  when  we  were  actually  married." 

"  We  can't  think  of  that.     The  child  may  not  live." 

Tarrant  moved,  and  the  movement  startled  Nancy.  It 
meant  that  she  had  pained  him,  perhaps  made  him  think 
of  her  with  repugnance. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  saying.  You  know  I  don't 
wish  that.  But  all  I  can  think  of  now  is  to  keep  you  near 
me.  I  can't  bear  to  be  separated  from  you.  I  love  you  so 
much  more  than  you  love  me." 

"  Let  me  just  tell  you  what  I  had  in  mind,  Nancy.  Sup- 
posing the  secret  can  be  kept,  we  must  eventually  live 
abroad,  that  is  to  say,  if  our  child  is  not  to  grow  up  a 
stranger  to  us,  which  neither  you  nor  I  could  wish.  Now, 
at  Nassau,  the  capital  of  the  Bahamas,  a  lot  of  Americans 
always  spend  the  winter.  If  I  made  acquaintances  among 
them,  it  might  be  a  very  useful  step,  it  would  be  preparing 
for  the  future." 

To  Nancy  this  sounded  far  from  convincing.  She 
argued  against  it  in  a  perfectly  natural  wray,  and  as  any 
one  else  would  have  done  who  knew  Tarrant.  More  than 
once  he  had  declared  to  her,  that  he  would  rather  die  than 
drag  out  his  life  in  one  of  the  new  countries,  that  he  could 
not  breathe  in  an  atmosphere  of  commercialism  unrelieved 
by  historic  associations.  Nancy  urged  that  it  would  be 


178  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

better  to  make  a  home  on  the  continent,  whither  they 
could  go,  at  any  moment,  without  a  sense  of  exile. 

"  So  it  comes  to  this,"  he  interrupted,  with  an  air  of  res- 
ignation. "  I  must  refuse  Vawdrey's  offer,  and,  in  doing 
so,  refuse  an  excellent  chance  of  providing  for  our  future, 
if — what  is  by  no  means  improbable — the  secret  should  be 
discovered.  I  must  turn  to  journalism,  or  be  a  clerk.  Well 
and  good.  My  wife  decrees  it." 

And  he  began  to  hum  an  air,  as  if  the  matter  were  dis- 
missed. There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  How  long  would  you  be  away  ? "  murmured  Nancy, 
at  length. 

"  I  suppose  two  months  at  most." 

"  November — December." 

"  The  second  of  those  months  you  might  be  spending, 
as  you  said,  away  from  London.  Down  in  Devon,  per- 
haps. I  can't  blame  your  thoughts  about  it ;  but  it  seems 
— doesn't  it  ? — a  trifle  inconsiderate,  when  you  think  what 
might  result  from  my  journey." 

"  Would  you  promise  me  to  be  back  by  the  end  of  the 
year  ? " 

"  Not  promise,  Nancy.  But  do  my  best.  Letters  take 
fourteen  days,  that's  all.  You  should  hear  by  every  mail." 

"  Why  not  promise  ? " 

"  Because  I  can't  foresee  how  much  I  may  have  to  do 
there,  and  how  long  it  will  take  me.  But  you  may  be  very 
sure  that  Vawdrey  won  t  pay  expenses  for  longer  than  he 
can  help.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  get  mate- 
rials for  some  magazine  articles.  That  would  help  to  float 
me  with  the  editors,  you  know,  if  it's  necessary." 

Nancy  sighed. 

"  If  I  consented — if  I  did  my  best  not  to  stand  in  your 
way — would  you  love  me  better  when  you  came  back  ? " 

The  answer  was  a  pleased  laugh. 

"Why,  there,"  he  cried,  "you've  given  in  a  nutshell 
the  whole  duty  of  a  wife  who  wishes  to  be  loved ! " 

Nancy  tried  to  laugh  with  him. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  179 


VIII 

HE  must  be  a  strong  man  whom  the  sudden  stare  of 
Penury  does  not  daunt  and,  in  some  measure,  debase. 
Tarrant,  whatever  the  possibilities  of  his  nature,  had 
fallen  under  a  spell  of  indolent  security,  which  declared 
its  power  only  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  demand 
for  vigorous  action.  The  moment  found  him  a  sheer  pol- 
troon. "  What !  Is  it  possible  that  I— I— am  henceforth 
penniless  ?  I,  to  whom  the  gods  were  so  gracious  ?  I, 
without  warning,  flung  from  sheltered  comfort  on  to  the 
bare  road  side,  where  I  must  either  toil  or  beg  ? "  The 
thing  seemed  unintelligible.  He  had  never  imagined  such 
ruin  of  his  hopes. 

For  the  first  time,  he  turned  anxious  thoughts  upon  the 
money  to  which  his  wife  was — would  be — might  be — en- 
titled. He  computed  the  chances  of  success  in  the  decep- 
tion he  and  she  were  practising,  and  knew  with  shame 
that  he  must  henceforth  be  party  to  a  vulgar  fraud. 
Could  Nancy  be  trusted  to  carry  through  this  elaborate 
imposition — difficult  for  the  strongest-minded  woman  ? 
Was  it  not  a  certainty  that  some  negligence,  or  some 
accident,  must  disclose  her  secret  ?  Then  had  he  a  wife 
and  child  upon  his  hands,  to  support  even  as  common 
men  support  wife  and  child,  by  incessant  labour.  The 
prospect  chilled  him. 

If  he  went  to  the  West  Indies,  his  absence  would 
heighten  the  probability  of  Nancy's  detection.  Yet  he 
desired  to  escape  from  her.  Not  to  abandon  her ;  of  that 
thought  he  was  incapable ;  but  to  escape  the  duty — repul- 
sive to  his  imagination — of  encouraging  her  through  the 
various  stages  of  their  fraud.  From  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic he  would  write  affectionate,  consolatory  letters ;  face 
to  face  with  her,  could  he  support  the  show  of  tenderness,  go 
through  an  endless  series  of  emotional  interviews,  always 
reminding  himself  that  the  end  in  view  was  hard  cash  ? 
Not  for  love's  sake;  he  loved  her  less  than  before  she 
proved  herself  his  wife  in  earnest.  Veritable  love — no 


180  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

man  knew  better — would  have  impelled  him  to  save  him- 
self and  her  from  a  degrading  position. 

Was  he  committing  himself  to  a  criminality  which  the 
law  would  visit  ?  Hardly  that — until  he  entered  into  pos- 
session of  money  fraudulently  obtained. 

In  miserable  night-watchings,  he  fell  to  the  most  sordid 
calculations.  Supposing  their  plot  revealed,  would  Nancy 
in  fact  be  left  without  resources  ?  Surely  not, — with  her 
brother,  her  aunt,  her  lifelong  friends  the  Barinbys,  to  take 
thought  for  her.  She  could  not  suffer  extremities.  And 
upon  this  he  blushed  relief. 

Better  to  make  up  his  mind  that  the  secret  must  in- 
evitably out.  For  the  moment,  Nancy  believed  she  had 
resigned  herself  to  his  departure,  and  that  she  had  strength 
to  go  through  with  the  long  ordeal.  But  a  woman  in  her 
situation  cannot  be  depended  upon  to  pursue  a  consistent 
course.  It  is  Nature's  ordinance  that  motherhood  shall  be 
attained  through  phases  of  mental  disturbance,  which 
leave  the  sufferer  scarce  a  pretence  of  responsibility. 
Nancy  would  play  strange  pranks,  by  which,  assuredly, 
he  would  be  driven  to  exasperation  if  they  passed  under 
his  eyes.  He  had  no  mind  to  be  called  father ;  perhaps 
even  his  humanity  might  fail  under  the  test  to  which,  as 
a  lover,  he  had  given  scarce  a  casual  thought.  By  remov- 
ing himself,  and  awaiting  the  issue  afar  off,  he  gained  time 
and  opportunity  for  reflection.  Of  course  his  wife  could 
not  come  to  want ;  that,  after  all,  was  the  one  clearly  com- 
forting thought.  Her  old  servant  would  take  good  care  of 
her,  happen  what  might. 

He  must  taste  of  liberty  again  before  sinking  into  the 
humdrum  of  married  life.  The  thought  of  an  ocean  voy- 
age, of  the  new  life  amid  tropic  splendours,  excited  his 
imagination  all  the  more  because  it  blended  with  the 
thought  of  recovered  freedom.  Marriage  had  come  upon 
him  with  unfair  abruptness ;  for  such  a  change  as  that^ 
even  the  ordinary  bachelor  demands  a  season  preparative ; 
much  more,  then,  the  young  man  who  revelled  in  a  philo- 
sophic sense  of  detachment,  who  wrote  his  motto  "vixi 


IN  TPIE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  181 

hodie ! "  For  marriage  he  was  simply  unfit ;  forced  to- 
gether, he  and  his  wife  would  soon  be  mutually  detest- 
able. A  temporary  parting  might  mature  in  the  hearts  of 
both  that  affection  of  which  the  seed  was  undeniably 
planted. 

Yes,  it  had  begun  already,  the  trial  he  dreaded.  A 
letter  from  Nancy,  written  and  posted  only  an  hour  or  two 
after  her  return  home — a  long,  distracted  letter.  Would 
he  forgive  her  for  seeming  to  be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
what  he  had  proposed  ?  Would  he  promise  her  to  be  faith- 
ful ?  Would  he- 
He  had  hardly  patience  to  read  it  through. 

The  next  evening,  on  returning  home  about  ten  o'clock, 
he  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  Nancy's  figure  at  the  foot 
of  his  staircase. 

"  What  has  happened  ? " 

"Nothing — don't  be  frightened.  But  I  wanted  to  see 
you  to-night." 

She  gripped  his  hand. 

"  How  long  have  you  waited  ?  What  ?  Hours  ?  But 
this  is  downright  madness — such  a  night  as  this  !  Couldn't 
you  put  a  note  for  me  in  the  letterbox  ? " 

"  Don't — don't  speak  so !  I  wanted  to  see  you."  She 
hurried  her  words,  as  if  afraid  he  would  refuse  to  listen. 
"  I  have  told  Mary — I  wanted  you  to  know " 

"Come  in.  But  there's  no  fire,  and  you're  chilled 
through.  Do  you  want  to  be  ill  ?  What  outrageous  silli- 
ness ! " 

Her  vitality  was  indeed  at  a  low  ebb,  and  reproaches 
made  her  weep.  Tarrant  half  carried  her  up  to  his 
room,  made  a  light,  and  fell  to  his  knees  at  fire- 
building. 

"  Let  me  do  it,"  Nancy  exclaimed.  "  Let  me  wait  upon 
you " 

"  If  you  don't  sit  still  and  keep  quiet,  you'll  make  me 
angry  in  earnest." 

"  Then  you're  not  really  angry  with  me  ?  I  couldn't 
help  it." 


182  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  you  couldn't,"  Tarrant  muttered  cheer- 
lessly. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  Mary  will  be  our  friend. 
She  was  speechless  with  astonishment;  at  first  I  didn't 
know  what  she  would  say ;  she  looked  at  me  as  she  had 
never  looked  before — as  if  she  were  the  mistress,  and  I  the 
servant.  But  see  what  I  have  come  to ;  all  I  felt  was  a 
dread  lest  she  should  think  it  her  duty  to  cast  me  off.  I 
haven't  a  bit  of  pride  left.  I  could  have  fallen  on  my 
knees  before  her ;  I  almost  did.  But  she  was  very  good 
and  kind  and  gentle  at  last.  She'll  do  everything  she  can 
for  me." 

The  fire  in  a  blaze,  Tarrant  stood  up  and  regarded  it 
gloomily. 

"  Well,  did  she  think  it  possible  ? "  he  asked  at 
length. 

"  Yes,  she  did.  She  said  it  would  be  very  difficult,  but 
the  secret  might  be  kept — if  I  were  strong  enough.  And 
I  am  strong  enough — I  will  be " 

u  It  doesn't  look  like  it,"  said  Tarrant,  taking  the  edge 
off  his  words  with  a  smile. 

"  I  won't  come  again  in  this  way.  Where  have  you 
been  to-night  ? " 

"  Oh,  with  friends." 

"  Which  friends  ?  where  ? " 

He  moved  impatiently. 

"  People  you  don't  know,  Nancy,  and  wouldn't  care 
about  if  you  did.  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ? " 

"  Do  tell  me  where  you  have  been.  It  isn't  prying  into 
your  affairs.  Your  friends  ought  to  be  mine ;  at  least,  I 
mean,  I  ought  to  know  their  names,  and  something  about 
them.  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you  I  had  been  spending  the 
evening  with  friends ' 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  shouldn't  ask  a  question,  unless  you 
invited  it.  However,  it's  better  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  making  arrangements  to  sublet  these  chambers.  I 
can't  afford  to  keep  them,  even  if  there  were  any  use  in  it. 
Harvey  Munden  has  introduced  me  to  a  man  who  is  likely 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  133 

to  relieve  me  of  the  burden.  I  shall  warehouse  my  books 
and  furniture — 

"  Then  you  are  going  ?  Eeally  going  to  leave  Eng- 
land ? " 

He  aff ected  astonishment ;  in  truth,  nothing  now  could 
surprise  him. 

"  But  wasn't  it  all  decided  between  us  ?  Didn't  you  re- 
peat it  in  your  letter  ? " 

"  Yes — I  know — but  I  didn't  think  it  would  come  so 
soon." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  it  to-night,"  said  Tarrant  firmly. 
"  For  one  thing,  there's  no  time.  Come  closer  to  the  fire, 
and  get  warm  through ;  then  I  must  see  you  home." 

Nancy  hung  her  head.  When,  in  a  few  moments,  she 
looked  up  again,  it  was  to  say  drily : 

"  There's  no  need  for  you  to  see  me  home." 

"I'm  going  to,  at  all  events." 

"  Why  ?  You  don't  care  much  about  me.  I  might  as 
well  be  run  over — or  anything — 

To  this  remark  no  sort  of  answer  was  vouchsafed. 
Nancy  sat  with  her  feet  on  the  fender,  and  Tarrant  kept 
up  a  great  blaze  with  chips,  which  sputtered  out  their 
moisture  before  they  began  to  crackle.  He  and  she  both 
seemed  intent  on  this  process  of  combustion. 

"  Now  you're  quite  warm,"  said  the  young  man,  as  if 
speaking  to  a  child,  "  and  it's  time  to  go." 

Nancy  rose  obediently,  gazed  at  him  with  dreaming 
eyes,  and  suffered  herself  to  be  led  away  by  the  arm.  In 
Chancery  Lane,  Tarrant  hailed  a  crawling  hansom.  When 
they  were  driving  rapidly  southward,  Nancy  began  to 
question  him  about  the  date  of  his  departure ;  she  learnt 
that  he  might  be  gone  in  less  than  a  week. 

"  If  you  could  behave  quietly  and  sensibly,  we  would 
have  an  evening  to  make  final  arrangements." 

"  I  can,"  she  answered,  with  a  calm  that  surprised  him. 
"  If  you  go  without  letting  me  see  you  again,  I  don't  know 
what  I  might  do.  But  I  can  be  as  sensible  as  you  are,  if 
I'm  treated  fairly." 


184  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

He  grasped  her  hand. 

"  Remember,  dear  girl,  that  I  have  a  good  deal  to  worry 
me  just  now.  Do  you  suppose  I  leave  you  with  a  light 
heart  ? " 

"  If  you  can  persuade  me  that  you  care — 

"  I  care  a  good  deal  more  than  I  can  easily  say.  Your 
position  is  a  very  hard  one, — harder  than  mine.  But  I'm 
going  away  to  work  for  your  future.  I  see  clearly  that 
it's  the  best  thing  I  could  do.  Whether  Vawdrey's  ideas 
come  to  anything  or  not,  I  shall  make  profit  out  of  the 
journey ;  I  mean  to  write, — I  think  it's  all  I  can  do  to  any 
purpose, — and  the  material  I  shall  get  together  over  there 
will  give  me  a  start.  Don't  think  I  am  cold-hearted  be- 
cause I  talk  in  this  way ;  if  I  broke  down,  so  much  the 
worse  for  both  of  us.  The  time  has  come  for  serious 
work." 

"  But  we  shan't  lose  my  money.  I've  made  up  my 
mind  we  shan't." 

"  It's  impossible  for  you  to  guard  against  every  danger. 
We  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  that  responsibility 
rests  on  me.  Try  and  keep  your  mind  at  ease  ;  whatever 
happens,  to  protect  you  is  my  duty,  and  I  shall  not  fail 
in  it." 

Speaking  thus,  Tarrant  felt  the  glow  of  virtue.  His 
words  were  perfectly  sincere,  but  had  reference  to  a  future 
which  his  thoughts  left  comfortably  vague. 

They  were  to  meet  again,  probably  for  the  definite  part- 
ing, three  days  hence.  Tarrant,  whose  desire  for  escape 
had  now  become  incontrollable,  used  the  intervening  time 
in  a  rush  of  preparations.  He  did  not  debate  with  himself 
as  to  the  length  of  his  sojourn  in  the  West  Indies ;  that 
must  be  determined  by  circumstances.  Explicitly  he  had 
avoided  a  promise  on  the  subject.  What  money  he  pos- 
sessed he  would  take  with  him  ;  it  might  be  to  his  interest, 
for  Nancy's  likewise,  to  exceed  the  term  of  absence  pro- 
vided for  in  his  stipulations  with  Mr.  Vawdrey.  But  all  he 
deliberately  thought  of  was  the  getting  away.  Impatient 
with  Nancy,  because  of  the  vagaries  resultant  from  her 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  185 

mental  and  physical  state,  he  himself  exhibited  a  flagrant 
triumph  of  instinct  over  reason.  Once  in  enjoyment  of 
liberty,  he  would  reflect,  like  a  practical  man,  on  the  de- 
tails of  his  position,  review  and  recognise  his  obligations, 
pay  his  debt  to  honour ;  but  liberty  first  of  all.  Not  his 
the  nature  to  accept  bondage ;  it  demoralised  him,  made 
him  do  and  say  things  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  Only 
let  him  taste  the  breezes  of  ocean,  and  the  healthful  spirit 
which  is  one  with  rectitude  would  again  inspire  him. 

Much  to  his  surprise,  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  from 
Nancy  until  the  hour  appointed.  She  came  very  punctu- 
ally. On  opening  the  door  to  her,  with  an  air  of  resolute 
cheerfulness,  he  saw  something  in  her  face  that  removed 
the  necessity  for  playing  a  part.  It  was  the  look  which 
had  so  charmed  him  in  their  love-days,  the  indescribable 
look,  characteristic  of  Nancy,  and  of  her  alone ;  a  gleam 
between  smile  and  laughter,  a  glance  mingling  pride  with 
submission,  a  silent  note  of  personality  which  thrilled  the 
senses  and  touched  the  heart. 

"  What  now  ? "  he  asked,  holding  her  hand  and  gazing 
at  her.  "  Some  good  news  ? " 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  How  hot  your  room  is !  Why, 
you  look  glad  to  see  me  ! " 

"  Was  I  ever  anything  else  ? " 

She  answered  him  with  a  smile. 

"  It's  a  very  pleasant  surprise,"  he  continued,  watching 
her  as  she  threw  off  her  out-door  things.  "I  expected  a 
doleful  visage,  eyes  red  with  weeping.1' 

"  Did  you  ?  See  how  much  a  man  thinks  of  himself ! 
If  you  choose  to  go  away,  I  choose  to  think  as  little  of  you 
as  possible.  That's  common  sense — isn't  it  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  cry  about  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do.  It  flatters  you,  and  you  like  flattery. 
But  I've  been  too  obliging.  I  feel  myself  again,  and 
there's  no  more  flattery  for  you — till  you  come  back.  I 
don't  ask  you  when  that  will  be.  I  ask  you  nothing  at  all. 
I  am  independent  of  you." 

Tarrant  grew  uneasy.     He  feared  that  this  mood  of  jest 


186  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

would  change  only  too  suddenly,  and  her  collapse  into 
feminine  feebleness  be  the  more  complete. 

"  Be  as  independent  as  you  like,"  he  said ;  "  only  keep 
your  love  for  me." 

u  Oh,  indeed  !  It's  your  experience,  is  it,  that  the  two 
things  can  go  together  ?  That's  the  difference  between 
man  and  woman,  I  suppose.  I  shall  love  you  just  as 
little  as  possible — and  how  little  that  will  be,  perhaps  I 
had  better  not  tell  you." 

Still  he  stood  gazing  at  her. 

"  You  look  very  beautiful  to-day." 

"  I  know.  I  saw  it  for  myself  before  I  left  home.  But 
we  won't  talk  about  that.  When  do  you  go  ? " 

u  My  goods  will  be  warehoused  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day  I  go  to  Liverpool." 

"I'm  glad  it's  so  soon.  We  shan't  need  to  see  each 
other  again.  Smoke  your  pipe.  I'm  going  to  make  a  cup 
of  tea." 

"  Kiss  me  first.     You  forgot  when  you  came  in." 

"  You  get  no  kiss  by  ordering  it.  Beg  for  it  prettily, 
and  we'll  see." 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  Nancy  ?  How  can  you  have 
altered  like  this  ? " 

"  You  prefer  me  as  I  was  last  time  ? " 

"  Not  I,  indeed.  You  make  me  feel  that  it  will  be  very 
hard  to  leave  you.  I  shall  carry  away  a  picture  of  you 
quite  different  from  the  dreary  face  that  I  had  got  to  be 
afraid  of." 

Nancy  laughed,  and  of  a  sudden  held  out  her  hands  to 
him. 

"  Haven't  I  thought  of  that  ?  These  were  the  very 
words  I  hoped  to  hear  from  you.  Now  beg  for  a  kiss, 
and  you  shall  have  one." 

Never,  perhaps,  had  they  spent  together  so  harmonious 
an  evening.  Nancy's  tenderness  took  at  length  a  graver 
turn,  but  she  remained  herself,  face  and  speech  untroubled 
by  morbid  influence. 

tk  I  won't  see  you  again,"  she  said,  "  because  I  mightn't 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  187 

be  able  to  behave  as  I  can  to-day.  To-day  I  am  myself ; 
for  a  long  time  I  have  been  living  I  don't  know  how." 

Tarrant  murmured  something  about  her  state  of  health. 

u  Yes,  I  know  all  about  that.  A  strange  thought  came 
to  me  last  night.  When  my  father  was  alive  I  fretted 
because  I  couldn't  be  independent ;  I  wanted  to  be  quite 
free,  to  live  as  I  chose ;  I  looked  forward  to  it  as  the  one 
thing  desirable.  Now,  I  look  back  on  that  as  a  time  of 
liberty.  I  am  in  bondage,  now — threefold  bondage." 

a  How  threefold  ? " 

"  To  you,  because  I  love  you,  and  couldn't  cease  loving 
you,  however  I  tried.  Then,  to  my  father's  will,  which 
makes  me  live  in  hiding,  as  if  I  were  a  criminal.  And 
then— 

"  What  other  tyranny  ? " 

"  You  mustn't  expect  all  my  love.  Before  long  some 
one  else  will  rule  over  me. — What  an  exchange  I  have 
made  !  And  I  was  going  to  be  so  independent." 

To  the  listener,  her  speech  seemed  to  come  from  a 
maturer  mind  than  she  had  hitherto  revealed.  But  he 
suffered  from  the  thought  that  this  might  be  merely  a 
pathological  phase.  In  reminding  him  of  her  mother- 
hood, she  checked  the  flow  of  his  emotion. 

"  You'll  remember,"  Nancy  went  on,  "  that  I'm  not  en- 
joying myself  whilst  you  are  away.  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  unhappy — only  to  think  of  me,  and  keep  in  mind  what 
I'm  going  through.  If  you  do  that,  you  won't  be  away 
from  me  longer  than  you  can  help." 

It  was  said  with  unforced  pathos,  and  Tarrant's  better 
part  made  generous  reply. 

"  If  you  find  it  too  hard,  dear,  write  to  me,  and  tell  me, 
and  there  shall  be  an  end  of  it." 

"Never.  You  think  me  wretchedly  weak,  but  you 
shall  see " 

u  It's  of  your  own  free  will  you  undertake  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  of  my  own  free  will,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  I 
won't  come  to  you  penniless.  It  isn't  right  I  should  do 
so.  My  father  didn't  mean  that.  If  I  had  had  the  sense 


188  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

and  the  courage  to  tell  him,  all  this  misery  would  have 
been  spared.  That  money  is  mine  by  every  right,  and  I 
won't  lose  it.  Not  only  for  your  sake  and  my  own — there 
is  some  one  else  to  think  of." 

Tarrant  gave  her  a  kind  look. 

"  Don't  count  upon  it.     Trust  to  me." 

u  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  but  I  don't  wish  you  to  be 
put  to  proof.  You  are  not  the  kind  of  man  to  make 
money." 

"  How  do  you  mean  it  ? " 

"As  you  like  to  take  it.  Silly  boy,  don't  I  love  you 
just  because  you  are  not  one  of  the  money-making  men  ? 
If  you  hadn't  a  penny  in  the  world,  I  should  love  you 
just  the  same ;  and  I  couldn't  love  you  more  if  you  had 
millions."  . 

The  change  which  Tarrant  expected  did  not  come.  To 
the  end,  she  was  brave  and  bright,  her  own  best  self.  She 
said  good-bye  without  a  tear,  refused  to  let  him  accompany 
her,  and  so,  even  as  she  had  resolved,  left  in  her  husband's 
mind  an  image  beckoning  his  return. 


PART  FOURTH— THE    VEILED  FIGURE. 


BEFORE  his  admission  to  a  partnership  in  Mr.  Lord's 
business,  Samuel  Barmby  lived  with  his  father  and  two 
sisters  in  Coldharbour  Lane.  Their  house  was  small,  old 
and  crumbling  for  lack  of  repair;  the  landlord,  his 
ground-lease  having  but  a  year  or  two  to  run,  looked  on 
with  equanimity  whilst  the  building  decayed.  Under  any 
circumstances,  the  family  must  soon  have  sought  a  home 
elsewhere,  and  Samuel's  good  fortune  enabled  them  to 
take  a  house  in  Dagmar  Road,  not  far  from  Grove  Lane ; 
a  new  and  most  respectable  house,  with  bay  windows  ris- 
ing from  the  half-sunk  basement  to  the  second  storey. 
Samuel,  notwithstanding  his  breadth  of  mind,  privately 
admitted  the  charm  of  such  an  address  as  "  Dagmar  Road," 
which  looks  well  at  the  head  of  note-paper,  and  falls  with 
sonority  from  the  lips. 

The  Barmby  sisters,  Lucy  and  Amelia  by  name,  were 
unpretentious  young  women,  without  personal  attractions, 
and  soberly  educated.  They  professed  a  form  of  Dissent  ; 
their  reading  was  in 'certain  religious  and  semi-religious 
periodicals,  rarely  in  books ;  domestic  occupations  took  up 
most  of  their  time,  and  they  seldom  had  any  engagements. 
At  appointed  seasons,  a  festivity  in  connection  with  "  the 
Chapel "  called  them  forth ;  it  kept  them  in  a  flutter  for 
many  days,  and  gave  them  a  headache.  In  the  strictest 
sense  their  life  was  provincial ;  nominally  denizens  of 
London,  they  dwelt  as  remote  from  everything  metro- 

13  189 


190  IN   THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

politan  as  though  Camberwell  were  a  village  of  the  Mid- 
lands. If  they  suffered  from  discontent,  no  one  heard  of 
it ;  a  confession  by  one  or  the  other  that  she  "  felt  dull " 
excited  the  sister's  surprise,  and  invariably  led  to  the  sug- 
gestion of  "  a  little  medicine." 

Their  brother  they  regarded  with  admiration,  tempered 
by  anxiety.  "  Great  talents,"  they  knew  by  report,  were 
often  perilous  to  the  possessor,  and  there  was  reason  to 
fear  that  Samuel  Bennett  Barmby  had  not  resisted  all  the 
temptations  to  which  his  intellect  exposed  him.  At  the  age 
of  one-and-twenty  he  made  a  startling  announcement ;  "  the 
Chapel "  no  longer  satisfied  the  needs  of  his  soul,  and  he 
found  himself  summoned  to  join  the  Church  of  England 
as  by  law  established.  Religious  intolerance  not  being  a 
family  characteristic,  Mr.  Barmby  and  his  daughters, 
though  they  looked  grave  over  the  young  man's  apostasy, 
admitted  his  freedom  in  this  matter ;  their  respected  friend 
Mr.  Lord  belonged  to  the  Church,  and  it  could  not  be 
thought  that  so  earnest-minded  a  man  walked  in  the  way 
to  perdition.  At  the  same  time,  Samuel  began  to  exhibit 
a  liking  for  social  pleasures,  which  were,  it  might  be  hoped, 
innocent,  but,  as  they  kept  him  from  home  of  evenings, 
gave  some  ground  for  uneasiness.  He  had  joined  a  society 
of  young  men  who  met  for  intellectual  debate,  and  his 
success  as  an  orator  fostered  the  spiritual  pride  already 
discernible  in  him.  His  next  step  could  not  be  regarded 
without  concern,  for  he  became  a  member  of  the  National 
Sunday  League.  Deceptive  name !  At  first  the  Miss 
Barmbys  supposed  this  was  a  union  for  safe-guarding  the 
Sabbath-day ;  it  appalled  them  to  discover  that  the  League 
had  quite  an  opposite  tendency,  that  its  adherents  sallied 
forth  together  on  "  Sunday  excursions,"  that  they  received 
tickets  for  Sunday  admission  to  picture  galleries,  and  in  va- 
rious other  ways  offended  orthodox  feeling.  But  again  the 
father  and  sisters  gave  patient  ear  to  Samuel's  elaborate  ar- 
guments. They  become  convinced  that  he  had  no  evil  in- 
tentions. The  elder  girl,  having  caught  up  a  pregnant 
phrase  in  some  periodical  sheapproved,  began  to  remark 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  191 

that  Samuel  had  "  a  modern  mind  ; "  and  this  eventually 
consoled  them. 

When  it  began  to  be  observed  that  Samuel  talked 
somewhat  frequently  of  Miss  Lord,  the  implied  suggestion 
caused  a  tremor  of  confused  feeling.  To  the  Miss  Barm- 
bys,  Nancy  seemed  an  enigmatic  person ;  they  had  tried 
to  like  her,  but  could  not ;  they  objected  to  her  assump- 
tion of  superiority,  and  were  in  grave  doubt  as  to  her 
opinions  on  cardinal  points  of  faith  and  behaviour.  Yet, 
when  it  appeared  a  possibility  that  their  brother  might 
woo  Miss  Lord  and  win  her  for  a  wife,  the  girls  did  their 
best  to  see  her  in  a  more  favourable  light.  Not  for  a 
moment  did  it  occur  to  them  that  Nancy  could  regard  a 
proposal  from  Samuel  as  anything  but  an  honour ;  to  them 
she  might  behave  slightingly,  for  they  were  of  her  own 
sex,  and  not  clever ;  but  a  girl  who  prided  herself  on  in- 
tellectual attainments  must  of  course  look  up  to  Samuel 
Bennett  with  reverence.  In  their  unworldliness — of  a 
truth  they  were  good,  simple  creatures — the  slight  differ- 
ence of  social  position  seemed  unimportant.  And  with 
Samuel's  elevation  to  a  partnership,  even  that  one  shadowy 
obstacle  was  removed.  Henceforth  they  would  meet 
Nancy  in  a  conciliatory  spirit,  and,  if  she  insisted  upon  it, 
bow  down  before  her. 

Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  whose  years  drew  nigh  to  three- 
score, had  a  great  advantage  in  point  of  physical  health 
over  his  old  friend  Stephen  Lord,  and  his  mind  enjoyed 
a  placidity  which  promised  him  length  of  days.  Since 
the  age  of  seventeen  he  had  plied  a  pen  in  the  office  of  a 
Life  Assurance  Company,  where  his  salary,  by  small  and 
slow  increments,  had  grown  at  length  to  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year.  Himself  a  small  and  slow  person,  he  had 
every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  this  progress,  and  hoped 
for  no  further  advance.  He  was  of  eminently  sober  mind, 
profoundly  conscientious,  and  quite  devoid  of  social  ambi- 
tion,— points  of  character  which  explained  the  long  inti- 
macy between  him  and  Stephen  Lord.  Yet  one  habit  he 
possessed  which  foreshadowed  the  intellectual  composition 


192  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

of  his  son, — he  loved  to  write  letters  to  the  newspapers. 
At  very  long1  intervals  one  of  these  communications 
achieved  the  honour  of  type,  and  then  Mr.  Barmby  was 
radiant  with  modest  self -approval.  He  never  signed  such 
letters  with  his  own  name,  but  chose  a  pseudonym  befit- 
ting the  subject.  Thus,  if  moved  to  civic  indignation  by 
pieces  of  orange-peel  on  the  pavement,  he  styled  himself 
"  Urban  Rambler ; "  if  anxious  to  protest  against  the  over- 
crowding of  'bus  or  railway-carriage,  his  signature  was 
"  Otium  cum  Dignitate."  When  he  took  a  holiday  at  the 
seaside,  unwonted  leisure  and  novel  circumstances 
prompted  him  to  address  local  editors  at  considerable 
length.  The  preservation  of  decency  by  bathers  was  then 
his  favourite  topic,  and  he  would  sign  "  Pudor,"  or  per- 
chance "  Paterfamilias."  His  public  epistles,  if  collected, 
would  have  made  an  entertaining  and  instructive  volume, 
so  admirably  did  they  represent  one  phase  of  the  popular 
mind.  "  No,  sir," — this  sentence  frequently  occurred, — "  it 
was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  achieved  national  and  civic 
greatness."  And  again  :  u  All  the  feelings  of  an  English 
parent  revolt,"  &c.  Or :  "  And  now,  sir,  where  is  this  to 
end  ? " — a  phrase  applied  at  one  moment  to  the  prospects  of 
religion  and  morality,  at  another  to  the  multiplication  of 
muffin-bells. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  Mr.  Barmby  often  read  aloud 
to  his  daughters,  and  in  general  his  chosen  book  was 
"Paradise  Lost."  These  performances  had  an  indescriba- 
ble solemnity,  but  it  unfortunately  happened  that,  as  his 
fervour  increased,  the  reader  became  regardless  of  aspi- 
rates. Thus,  at  the  culmination  of  Satanic  impiety,  he 
would  give  forth  with  shaking  voice — 

"  Ail,  errors,  ail !  and  them  profoundest  Ell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor ! " 

This,  though  it  did  not  distress  the  girls,  was  painful  to 
Samuel  Bennett,  who  had  given  no  little  care  to  the  cor- 
rection of  similar  lapses  in  his  own  speech. 

Samuel  conceived  himself  much  ahead  of  his  family. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  193 

Quite  uneducated,  in  any  legitimate  sense  of  the  word,  he 
had  yet  learnt  that  such  a  thing  as  education  existed,  and, 
by  dint  of  busy  perusal  of  penny  popularities,  had  even 
become  familiar  with  names  and  phrases,  with  modes  of 
thought  and  of  ambition,  appertaining  to  a  world  for  ever 
closed  against  him.  He  spoke  'of  Culture,  and  imagined 
himself  far  on  the  way  to  attain  it.  His  mind  was  packed 
with  the  oddest  jumble  of  incongruities ;  Herbert  Spencer 
jostled  with  Charles  Bradlaugh,  Matthew  Arnold  with 
Samuel  Smiles ;  in  one  breath  he  lauded  George  Eliot,  in 
the  next  was  enthusiastic  over  a  novel  by  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood ;  from  puerile  facetiae  he  passed  to  speculations  on 
the  origin  of  being,  and  with  equally  light  heart.  Save 
for  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Robinson  Crusoe,  he  had  read 
no  English  classic ;  since  boyhood,  indeed,  he  had  prob- 
ably read  no  book  at  all,  for  much  diet  of  newspapers  ren- 
dered him  all  but  incapable  of  sustained  attention.  What- 
ever he  seemed  to  know  of  serious  authors  came  to  him  at 
second  or  third  hand.  Avowing  his  faith  in  Christianity 
when  with  orthodox  people,  in  the  society  of  sceptics  he 
permitted  himself  to  smile  at  the  old  faiths, — though  he 
preferred  to  escape  this  temptation,  the  Nonconformist 
conscience  still  reigning  within  him.  At  home  he  posed 
as  a  broad-minded  Anglican,  and  having  somewhere  read 
that  Tennyson's  "  In  Memoriam  "  represented  this  attitude, 
he  spoke  of  the  poem  as  "  one  of  the  books  that  fiave  made 
me  wrhat  I  am." 

His  circle  of  acquaintances  lay  apart  from  that  in 
which  the  Lords  moved ;  it  consisted  for  the  most  part  of 
young  men  humbly  endowed  in  the  matter  of  income,  and 
making  little  pretense  of  social  dignity.  When  others  re- 
sorted to  theatre  or  public-house,  or  places  not  so  readily 
designated,  Samuel  arid  his  friends  met  together  to  dis- 
course on  subjects  of  which  they  knew  somewhat  less  than 
nothing.  Some  of  them  occasionally  held  audacious  lan- 
guage, especially  when  topics  such  as  the  relations  of  the 
sexes  invited  their  wisdom ;  they  had  read  something 
somewhere  which  urged  them  to  cast  off  the  trammels  of 


194:  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

conventional  thought ;  they  "  ventured  to  say "  that  in  a 
very  few  years  "  surprising  changes  of  opinion  would  come 
about."  These  revolutionaries,  after  startling  the  more 
sober  of  their  hearers,  went  quietly  home  to  mother  or 
landlady,  supped  on  cheese  and  cocoa,  and  next  day  plied 
the  cleric  pen  with  exemplary  zeal. 

Samuel  believed  himself  in  love.  That  he  should  con- 
ceive matrimonial  intentions  with  regard  to  Stephen  Lord's 
daughter  was  but  the  natural  issue  of  circumstance  ;  from 
that  conception  resulted  an  amorous  mood,  so  much 
inflamed  by  Nancy's  presence  that  a  young  man,  whose 
thoughts  did  not  often  transgress  decorum,,  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  himself  her  victim.  When  Nancy  re- 
jected his  formal  offer  of  devotion,  the  desire  to  wed  her 
besieged  him  more  vigorously  ;  Samuel  was  piqued  at  the 
tone  of  lofty  trifling  in  which  the  girl  answered  his  pro- 
posal ;  for  assuredly  he  esteemed  himself  no  less  remarka- 
ble a  person  than  he  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  his  sisters, 
and  his  vanity  had  been  encouraged  by  Mr.  Lord's  favour. 
Of  his  qualities  as  a  man  of  business  there  was  no  doubt ; 
in  one  direction  or  another,  he  would  have  struck  the  road 
to  fortune ;  why  Nancy  should  regard  him  with  conde- 
scension, and  make  him  feel  at  once  that  his  suit  was 
hopeless,  puzzled  him  for  many  a  day.  He  tried  flattery, 
affecting  to  regard  her  as  his  superior  in  things  of  the 
intellect,  ^>ut  only  with  the  mortifying  result  that  Miss 
Lord  accepted  his  humility  as  quite  natural.  Then  he  held 
apart  in  dignified  reserve,  and  found  no  difficulty  in  main- 
taining this  attitude  until  after  Mr.  Lord's  death.  Of 
course  he  did  not  let  his  relatives  know  of  the  repulse  he 
had  suffered,  but,  when  speaking  to  them  of  what  had 
happened  on  Jubilee  night,  he  made  it  appear  that  his 
estimate  of  Miss  Lord  was  undergoing  modification.  "  She 
has  lost  him,  all  through  her  flightiness,"  said  the  sisters 
to  each  other.  They  were  not  sorry,  and  felt  free  again  to 
criticise  Nancy's  ideas  of  maidenly  modesty. 

The  provisions  of  Mr.  Lord's  will  could  not  but  trouble 
the  intercourse  between  Grove  Lane  and  Dagmar  Road. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  195 

Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  undertook  with  characteristic  serious- 
ness the  guardianship  conferred  upon  him.  He  had  long 
interviews  with  Horace  and  Nancy,  in  which  he  acquitted 
himself  greatly  to  his  own  satisfaction.  Samuel,  equally 
a  trustee,  showed  his  delicacy  by  holding  aloof  save  when 
civility  dictated  a  call  upon  the  young  people.  But  his 
hopes  had  revived ;  he  was  quite  willing  to  wait  three 
years  for  Nancy,  and  it  seemed  to  him  more  than  probable 
that  this  period  of  reflection  would  bring  the  young  lady 
to  a  sense  of  his  merits.  In  the  meantime,  he  would  pur- 
sue with  energy  the  business  now  at  his  sole  direction,  and 
make  it  far  more  lucrative  than  wrhen  managed  on  Mr. 
Lord's  old-fashioned  principles. 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  it  seemed  more  clear  than  at  first 
that  Nancy  resented  the  authority  held  by  Samuel  and  his 
father.  They  were  not  welcome  at  the  house  in  Grove 
Lane;  the  Miss  Barmbys  called  several  times  without 
being  admitted,  though  they  felt  sure  that  Nancy  was  at 
home.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  became  desirable  to 
discover  some  intermediary  who  would  keep  them  ac- 
quainted with  the  details  of  Nancy's  life  and  of  her  broth- 
er's. Such  intermediary  was  at  hand,  in  the  person  of 
Miss  Jessica  Morgan. 


II 

UNTIL  of  late  there  had  existed  a  bare  acquaintance 
between  Jessica  and  the  Barmby  family.  The  two  or  three 
hours  which  she  perforce  spent  in  Samuel's  company  on 
Jubilee  night  caused  Jessica  no  little  embarrassment ;  as  a 
natural  result,  their  meetings  after  that  had  a  colour  of 
intimacy,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Miss  Morgan  and  the 
Miss  Barmbys  began  to  see  more  of  each  other.  Nancy, 
on  a  motive  correspondent  with  that  which  actuated  her 
guardians,  desired  Jessica's  familiarity  with  the  household 
on  Dagmar  Eoad ;  her  friend  could  thus  learn  and  com- 
municate sundry  facts  of  importance,  else  hidden  from 
her  in  the  retirement  to  which  she  was  now  condemned. 


196  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

How  did  the  Barmbys  regard  her  behaviour  to  them  ? 
Did  they,  in  their  questioning,  betray  any  suspicion 
fraught  with  danger  ?  Jessica,  enjoying  the  possession  of 
a  most  important  secret,  which  she  had  religiously  guarded 
even  from  her  mother,  made  time  to  accept  the  Barmbys' 
invitations  pretty  frequently,  and  invited  the  girls  to  her 
own  home  as  often  as  she  could  afford  a  little  outlay  on 
cakes  and  preserves. 

It  made  a  salutary  distraction  in  her  life.  As  Decem- 
ber drew  near,  she  exhibited  alarming  symptoms  of  over- 
work, and  but  for  the  romance  which  assured  to  her  an 
occasional  hour  of  idleness,  she  must  have  collapsed  before 
the  date  of  her  examination.  As  it  was,  she  frightened 
one  of  her  pupils,  at  the  end  of  a  long  lesson,  by  falling  to 
the  floor  and  lying  there  for  ten  minutes  in  unconscious- 
ness. The  warning  passed  unheeded ;  day  and  night  she 
toiled  at  her  insuperable  tasks,  at  times  half  frenzied  by 
the  strangest  lapses  of  memory,  and  feeling,  the  more  she 
laboured,  only  the  more  convinced  that  at  the  last  moment 
every  fact  she  had  acquired  would  ruthlessly  desert  her. 

Her  place  of  abode  favoured  neither  health  nor  mental 
tranquillity.  It  was  one  of  a  row  of  new  houses  in  a  new 
quarter.  A  year  or  two  ago  the  site  had  been  an  enclosed 
meadow,  portion  of  the  land  attached  to  what  was  once  a 
country  mansion ;  London,  devourer  of  rural  limits,  of  a 
sudden  made  hideous  encroachment  upon  the  old  estate, 
now  held  by  a  speculative  builder ;  of  many  streets  to  be 
constructed,  three  or  four  had  already  come  into  being, 
and  others  were  mapped  out,  in  mud  and  inchoate  ma- 
sonry, athwart  the  ravaged  field.  Great  elms,  the  pride  of 
generations  passed  away,  fell  before  the  speculative  axe,  or 
were  left  standing  in  mournful  isolation  to  please  a  specu- 
lative architect;  bits  of  wayside  hedge  still  shivered  in 
fog  and  wind,  amid  hoardings  variegated  with  placards 
and  scaffolding  black  against  the  sky.  The  very  earth 
had  lost  its  wholesome  odour ;  trampled  into  mire,  fouled 
with  builders'  refuse  and  the  noisome  drift  from  adjacent 
streets,  it  sent  forth,  under  the  sooty  rain,  a  smell  of  cor- 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  197 

ruption,  of  all  the  town's  uncleanliness.  On  this  rising 
locality  had  been  bestowed  the  title  of  "Park."  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  decided  in  her  choice  of  a  dwelling  here  by 
the  euphonious  address,  Merton  Avenue,  Something-or- 
other  Park. 

The  old  mansion — not  very  old,  and  far  from  beautiful, 
but  stoutly  built — stood  grim  and  desolate,  long  disman- 
tled, arid  waiting  only  to  be  torn  down  for  the  behoof  of 
speculative  dealers  in  old  material.  What  aforetime  was 
a  tree-bordered  drive,  now  curved  between  dead  stumps,  a 
mere  slushy  cart- way ;  the  stone  pillars,  which  had  marked 
the  entrance,  damaged  in  the  rending  away  of  metal  with 
a  market  value,  drooped  sideways,  ready  at  a  touch  to 
bury  themselves  in  slime. 

Tlirough  summer  months  the  Morgans  had  suffered 
sufficiently  from  the  defects  of  their  house;  with  the 
coming  on* of  winter,  they  found  themselves  exposed  to 
miseries  barely  endurable.  At  the  first  slight  frost, 
cistern  and  water-pipes  went  to  ruin  ;  already  so  damp 
that  unlovely  vegetation  had  cropped  up  on  cellar  walls, 
the  edifice  was  now  drenched  with  torrents  of  water. 
Plaster  fell  from  the  ceilings  ;  paper  peeled  away  down 
the  staircase  ;  stuccoed  portions  of  the  front  began  to 
crack  and  moulder.  Not  a  door  that  would  close  as  a 
door  should  ;  not  a  window  that  would  open  in  the  way 
expected  of  it ;  not  a  fireplace  but  discharged  its  smoke 
into  the  room,  rather  than  by  the  approved  channel. 
Everywhere  piercing  draughts,  which  often  entered  by 
orifices  unexplained  and  unexplainable.  From  cellar 
floor  to  chimney-pot,  no  square  inch  of  honest  or  trust- 
worthy workmanship.  So  thin  were  the  parti-walls  that 
conversation  not  only  might,  but  must,  be  distinctly 
heard  from  room  to  room,  and  from  house  to  house  ;  the 
Morgans  learnt  to  subdue  their  voices,  lest  all  they  said 
should  become  common  property  of  the  neighbourhood. 
For  the  privilege  of  occupying  such  a  residence,  "  the 
interior,1'  said  advertisement,  "  handsomely  decorated," 
they  were  racked  with  an  expenditure  which,  away  in  the 


198  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

sweet-scented  country,  would  have  housed  them  amid 
garden  graces  and  orchard  fruitfulness. 

At  this  time,  Mr.  Morgan  had  joined  an  acquaintance 
in  the  establishment  of  a  debt-collecting  agency ;  his 
partner  provided  the  modest  capital  needful  for  such  an 
enterprise,  and  upon  himself  fell  the  disagreeable  work. 
A  man  of  mild  temper  and  humane  instincts,  he  spent  his 
day  in  hunting  people  who  would  not  or  could  not  pay 
the  money  they  owed,  straining  his  wits  to  circumvent  the 
fraudulent,  and  swooping  relentlessly  upon  the  victims  of 
misfortune.  The  occupation  revolted  him,  but  at  present 
he  saw  no  other  way  of  supporting  the  genteel  appear- 
ances which — he  knew  not  why — were  indispensable  to 
his  life.  He  subsisted  like  a  bird  of  prey  ;  he  was  ever  011 
the  look  out  for  carrion  which  the  law  permitted  him  to 
seize.  From  the  point  of  view  forced  upon  him,  society 
became  a  mere  system  of  legalised  rapine.  "  You  are  in 
debt ;  behold  the  bond.  Behold,  too,  my  authority  for 
squeezing  out  of  you  the  uttermost  farthing.  You  must 
beg  or  starve  ?  I  deplore  it,  but  I,  for  my  part,  have  a 
genteel  family  to  maintain  on  what  I  rend  from  your 
grip."  He  set  his  forehead  against  shame  ;  he  stooped  to 
the  basest  chicanery  ;  he  exposed  himself  to  insult,  to 
curses,  to  threats  of  violence.  Sometimes  a  whole  day  of 
inconceivably  sordid  toil  resulted  in  the  pouching  of  a 
few  pence  ;  sometimes  his  reward  was  a  substantial  sum. 
He  knew  himself  despised  by  many  of  the  creditors  who 
employed  him.  "  Bad  debts  ?  For  how  much  will  you 
sell  them  to  me  ? "  And  as  often  as  not  he  took  away 
with  his  bargain  a  glance  which  was  equivalent  to  a 
kick. 

The  genteel  family  knew  nothing  of  these  expedients. 
Mrs.  Morgan  talked  dolorously  to  her  friends  of  "  com- 
mercial depression,"  and  gave  it  to  be  vaguely  understood 
that  her  husband  had  suffered  great  losses  because  he  con- 
ducted his  affairs  in  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman.  Her  son 
was  "  in  an  office ; "  her  elder  daughter  was  attempting 
the  art  of  fiction,  which  did  not  promise  to  be  lucrative ; 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  199 

Jessica,  more  highly  educated,  would  shortly  matriculate 
at  the  university  of  London — a  consoling  prospect,  but  in- 
volving the  payment  of  a  fee  that  could  with  difficulty 
be  afforded. 

Every  friend  of  the  family  held  it  a  matter  of  course 
that  Jessica  would  succeed  in  the  examination.  It  seemed 
probable  that  she  would  have  a  place  in  Honours. 

And,  meanwhile,  the  poor  girl  herself  was  repenting 
of  the  indiscreet  boastfulness  with  which  she  had  made 
known  her  purpose.  To  come  out  in  an  inferior  class 
would  be  painful  enough  ;  how  support  the  possibility  of 
absolute  failure  ?  Yet  she  knew  only  too  well  that  in 
certain  "  subjects "  she  was  worse  than  shaky.  Her 
Greek — her  Chemistry — her  Algebra 

By  way  of  propitiating  the  stern  fates,  she  began  to 
talk  with  Lucy  and  Amelia  Barmby  in  a  tone  of  diffi- 
dence. Half  a  year  ago,  she  would  have  held  her  head 
very  high  in  such  company  ;  now  the  simple  goodness  of 
the  old-fashioned  girls  made  an  appeal  to  her  aching 
heart,  and  their  homely  talk  soothed  her  exhausted  brain. 

"  It's  fearfully  difficult,"  she  said  to  them  one  evening, 
as  she  sat  in  their  parlour.  u  And  I  lose  so  much  time 
with  my  pupils.  Really,  you  know,  I  haven't  a  fair 
chance.  I  was  showing  Nancy  Lord  the  Algebra  paper 
set  last  summer,  and  she  confessed  she  could  hardly  do  a 
single  question." 

"  She  couldn't  ? "  exclaimed  one  of  the  sisters  in  as- 
tonishment. "  But  we  always  thought  she  was  so  very 
clever." 

"  So  she  is — in  many  things.  But  she  never  dreamt  of 
going  in  for  such  an  examination  as  this." 

u  And  do  you  really  know  more  than  she  does  ? " 

Jessica  smiled  with  affected  modesty. 

"  Oh,  I  have  studied  so  much  more." 

It  was  sweet  to  gain  this  triumph  over  her  friend, 
whose  progress  in  the  school  of  life  she  watched  with  the 
jealousy  of  a  girl  condemned  to  sterile  passions. 

Their  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Samuel 


200  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Barmby,  and  his  elder  sister,  addressing  him  without  re- 
flection, said  wonderingly : 

"  Sam,  did  you  know  that  Nancy  Lord  couldn't  pass 
the  examination  that  Miss  Morgan  is  going  in  for  ? " 

Jessica  blushed,  and  hastened  to  extenuate  this  crude 
statement. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  that.  Only  that  she  would  have  to 
study  very  hard  if  she  went  in  for  the  matriculation." 

"  Of  course  she  would,"  Samuel  assented,  largely,  as  he 
took  his  stand  before  the  fireplace  and  beamed  upon  the 
female  trio.  "  Miss  Lord  goes  in  for  broad  culture  ;  that's 
quite  a  different  thing  from  studying  for  examinations." 

To  the  hearers,  Jessica  not  excepted,  this  seemed  to 
argue  the  spirit  of  broad  culture  in  Samuel  himself. 
Miss  Morgan  pursued  nervously  : 

"  Examinations  are  nothing.  I  believe  very  stupid 
people  often  do  well  in  them,  and  clever  people  often 
fail." 

Her  voice  sank  on  the  last  word,  and  she  tried  to  read 
Barmby's  face  without  meeting  his  look.  Of  late,  a 
change  had  come  about  in  her  estimation  of  Samuel. 
Formerly  she  spoke  of  him  with  contemptuous  amuse- 
ment, in  the  tone  set  by  Nancy  ;  since  she  had  become  a 
friend  of  the  family,  his  sisters'  profound  respect  had 
influenced  her  way  of  thinking,  and  in  secret  she  was 
disposed  rather  to  admire  "  the  Prophet."  He  had  always 
struck  her  as  a  comely  man,  and,  her  education  notwith- 
standing, she  never  perceived  in  his  remarks  that  down- 
right imbecility  which  excited  Nancy's  derision.  On 
Jubilee  night  he  was  anything  but  a  tedious  companion  ; 
apart  from  her  critical  friend,  Jessica  had 'listened  without 
impatience  to  his  jests,  his  instructive  facts,  his  flowing 
rhetoric.  Now-a-days,  in  her  enfeebled  state  of  body  and 
mind,  she  began  to  look  forward  with  distinct  pleasure  to 
her  occasional  meetings  with  Samuel,  pleasure  which  per- 
haps was  enhanced  by  the  air  of  condescension  where- 
with he  tempered  his  courtesy.  Morbid  miseries  brought 
out  the  frailty  of  her  character.  Desiring  to  be  highly 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  201 

esteemed  by  Mr.  Barmby,  she  found  herself  no  less  willing 
to  join  his  sisters  in  a  chorus  of  humbly  feminine  admira- 
tion, when  he  discoursed  to  them  from  an  altitude.  At 
moments,  after  gazing  upon  his  eloquent  countenance, 
she  was  beset  by  strange  impulses  which  brought  blood 
to  her  cheek,  arid  made  her  dread  the  Miss  Barmbys' 
scrutiny. 

ki  I  look  upon  examinations,"  Samuel  was  saying,  "  as  a 
professional  matter.  I  never  went  in  for  them  myself, 
simply  because  I — I  turned  my  energies  in  another  direc- 
tion." 

"You  could  have  passed  them,"  remarked  one  of  his 
sisters,  "  easily  enough." 

"  In  Miss  Morgan's  presence," — he  stroked  his  chin,  and 
smiled  with  delicious  fatuity — "  I  prefer  to  say  nothing  on 
that  point." 

"  Oh,  but  of  course  you  could,  Mr.  Barmby,"  sounded 
Jessica's  voice,  in  an  unsteady  falsetto,  whilst  her  eyes 
were  turned  upon  the  floor.  "  You  would  have  thought 
nothing  of  this  matriculation,  which  seems  to  me  so  dread- 
ful." 

Profoundly  nattered,  Samuel  addressed  the  girl  in  his 
suavest  tones. 

"I  have  a  theory,  Miss  Morgan,  that  young  ladies 
ought  not  to  undergo  these  ordeals.  The  delicacy  of  their 
nervous  system  unfits  them  for  such  a  strain.  I'm  sure 
we  shall  all  feel  very  glad  when  you  are  successfully 
through  the  trial.  After  it,  you  ought  to  have  a  long 
rest." 

"  Oh,  you  ought — indeed  you  ought,"  assented  the 
girls. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Samuel,  "  my  father  has  heard  from 
Miss  Lord  that  she  is  going  away  for  a  month  or  two.  She 
says  her  health  requires  it." 

Jessica  sat  silent,  still  with  downcast  eyes. 

"But  it's  a  new  thing,  isn't  it,"  remarked  Amelia,  "for 
Miss  Lord  to  be  in  bad  health  ?  " 

"She  has  suffered  a  good  deal,  I'm  afraid," said  Jessica, 


202  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  since  her  father's  death.  The  doctor  tells  her  she  oughtn't 
to  live  in  that  dull  house  through  the  winter." 

"  In  that  case,"  Samuel  exclaimed,  "  of  course  she  must 
go  at  once— of  course  ! " 

He  never  spoke  of  Nancy  but  with  stress  of  unctuous 
generosity.  This,  if  his  hearers  knew  what  he  had  suffered 
at  her  hands,  must  tell  greatly  to  his  credit ;  if  they  were 
not  aware  of  the  circumstances,  such  a  tone  would  become 
him  as  the  young  lady's  hopeful  admirer. 

"  I  fear  her  nerves  are  affected,"  pursued  Jessica.  "  She 
can't  bear  society.  So  unlike  her,  isn't  it  ?  She  goes  out 
very  little  indeed,— sometimes  not  for  days  together. 
And  really  she  sees  nobody.  I'm  getting  quite  anxious 
about  her." 

The  subject  was  an  awkward  one  in  this  house,  and  it 
soon  gave  place  to  freer  conversation.  On  her  way  home, 
though  mechanically  repeating  dates  and  formulae,  Jes- 
sica could  not  resist  the  tendency  of  her  thoughts,  to  dwell 
on  Samuel's  features  and  Samuel's  eloquence.  This  was  a 
new  danger ;  she  had  now  little  more  than  a  fortnight  for 
her  final  "  cram,"  and  any  serious  distraction  meant  ruin. 

In  a  day  or  two  she  took  leave  of  Nancy,  who  had 
chosen  for  her  winter  retreat  no  less  remote  a  spot  than 
Falmouth.  Horace  having  settled  himself  in  lodgings, 
the  house  was  to  be  shut  up ;  Mary  Woodruff  of  course 
went  down  into  Cornwall.  Nancy  had  written  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  excusing  herself  for  not  being  able  to 
see  him  before  her  departure ;  it  was  an  amiable  letter,  but 
contained  frank  avowal  of  pain  and  discontent  at  the 
prospect  of  her  long  pupilage.  "  Of  course  I  submit  to  the 
burden  my  father  chose  to  lay  upon  me,  and  before  long, 
I  hope,  I  shall  be  able  to  take  things  in  a  better  spirit.  All 
I  ask  of  you,  dear  Mr.  Barmby,  is  to  have  forbearance  with 
me  until  I  get  back  my  health  and  feel  more  cheerful. 
You  know  that  I  could  not  be  in  better  hands  whilst  Mary 
is  with  me.  I  shall  write  frequently,  and  give  you  an  ac- 
count of  myself.  Let  me  hear  sometimes,  and  show  me 
that  you  make  allowance  for  my  very  trying  position." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  203 

Jessica  heard  the  letter  discussed  by  its  recipient  and 
his  family.  Samuel  spoke  with  his  wonted  magnanimity ; 
his  father  took  a  liberal  view  of  the  matter.  And  in  writ- 
ing to  her  friend  a  few  days  later,  Jessica  was  able  to  say  : 
"  I  think  you  may  safely  stay  at  Falmouth  for  the  whole 
winter.  You  will  not  be  interfered  with  if  you  write 
nicely.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  would  let  you  keep 
out  of  their  reach  as  long  as  it  is  necessary." 

The  week  of  Jessica's  ordeal  was  now  at  hand.  She 
had  had  another  fainting-fit ;  her  sleep  was  broken  every 
night  with  hideous  dreams ;  she  ate  scarce  enough  to  keep 
herself  alive;  a  perpetual  fever  parched  her  throat  and 
burned  at  her  temples. 

On  the  last  day  of  "cram,"  she  sat  from  morning  to 
night  in  her  comfortless  little  bedroom,  bending  over  the 
smoky  fire,  reading  desperately  through  a  pile  of  note- 
books. The  motive  of  vanity  no  longer  supported  her ; 
gladly  she  would  have  crept  away  into  a  life  of  insignifi- 
cance ;  but  the  fee  for  the  examination  was  paid,  and  she 
must  face  the  terrors,  the  shame,  that  waited  her  at  Bur- 
lington House.  No  hope  of  "passing."  Perhaps  at  the 
last  moment  a  stroke  of  mortal  illness  would  come  to  her 
relief. 

Not  so.  She  found  herself  in  the  ghastly  torture-hall, 
at  a  desk  on  which  lay  sheets  of  paper,  not  whiter  than 
her  face.  Somebody  gave  her  a  scroll,  stereotyped  in  imi- 
tation of  manuscript — the  questions  to  be  answered.  For 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  could  not  understand  a  word. 
She  saw  the  face  of  Samuel  Barmby,  and  heard  his  tones — 
"  The  delicacy  of  a  young  lady's  nervous  system  unfits  her 
for  such  a  strain." 

That  evening  she  went  home  with  a  half-formed  inten- 
tion of  poisoning  herself. 

But  the  morrow  saw  her  seated  again  before  another 
scroll  of  steoreotype,  still  thinking  of  Samuel  Barmby, 
still  hearing  his  voice.  The  man  was  grown  hateful  to 
her ;  he  seemed  to  haunt  her  brain  malignantly,  and  to 
paralyse  her  hand. 


204  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Day  after  day  in  the  room  of  torture,  until  all  was 
done.  Then  upon  her  long  despair  followed  a  wild,  un- 
reasoning hope.  Though  it  rained,  she  walked  all  the 
way  home,  singing,  chattering  to  herself,  and  reached  the 
house-door  without  consciousness  of  the  distance  she  had 
traversed.  Her  mother  and  sister  came  out  into  the  hall ; 
they  had  been  watching  for  her. 

"  I  did  a  good  paper  to-day — I  think  I've  passed  after 
all — yes,  I  feel  sure  I've  passed !  " 

"  You  look  dreadful,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morgan.  "And 
you're  wet  through " 

"  I  did  a  good  paper  to-day — I  feel  sure  I've  passed  ! " 

She  sat  down  to  a  meal  but  could  not  swallow. 

u  I  feel  sure  I've  passed — I  feel  sure ' 

And  she  fell  from  the  chair,  to  all  appearances  stone- 
dead. 

They  took  her  upstairs,  undressed  her,  sent  for  the 
doctor.  When  he  came,  she  had  been  lying  for  half -an- 
hour  conscious,  but  mute.  She  looked  gravely  at  him, 
and  said,  as  if  repeating  a  lesson : 

"  The  delicacy  of  a  young  lady's  nervous  system  unfits 
her  for  such  a  strain." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  repeated  the  doctor,  with  equal  gravity. 

"  But,"  she  added  eagerly,  "  let  Mr.  Barmby  know  at 
once  that  I  have  passed." 

"  He  shall  know  at  once,"  said  the  doctor. 


Ill 

A  LADY  who  lived  at  Kilburn,  and  entertained  largely 
in  a  house  not  designed  for  large  entertainment,  was  "  at 
home  "  this  evening.  At  eleven  o'clock  the  two  drawing- 
rooms  contained  as  many  people  as  could  sit  and  stand 
with  semblance  of  comfort;  around  the  hostess,  on  the 
landing,  pressed  a  crowd,  which  grew  constantly  thicker 
by  affluence  from  the  staircase.  In  the  hall  below  a 
"  Hungarian  band  "  discoursed  very  loud  music.  Among 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  205 

recent  arrivals  appeared  a  troupe  of  nigger  minstrels,  en- 
gaged to  give  their  exhilarating  entertainment — if  space 
could  be  found  for  them.  Bursts  of  laughter  from  the 
dining-room  announced  the  success  of  an  American  joker, 
who,  in  return  for  a  substantial  cheque,  provided  amuse- 
ment in  fashionable  gatherings.  A  brilliant  scene.  The 
air,  which  encouraged  perspiration,  was  rich  with  many 
odours  ;  voices  endeavouring  to  make  themselves  audible 
in  colloquy,  swelled  to  a  tumultuous  volume  that  vied 
with  the  Hungarian  clangours. 

In  a  comer  of  the  staircase,  squeezed  behind  two  very 
fat  women  in  very  low  dresses,  stood  Horace  Lord.  His 
heated  countenance  wore  a  look  of  fretful  impatience ;  he 
kept  rising  upon  his  toes  in  an  endeavour  to  distinguish 
faces  down  in  the  hall.  At  length  his  expression  changed, 
and  with  eager  eyes  he  began  to  force  a  way  for  himself 
between  the  fat  women.  Not  unrewarded  with  glaring 
glances,  and  even  with  severe  remarks,  he  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  came  within  reach 
of  the  persons  for  whom  he  had  been  waiting.  These  were 
Mrs.  Damerel  and  Fanny  French.  The  elder  lady  ex- 
hibited a  toilet  of  opulence  corresponding  with  her  mature 
charms ;  the  younger,  as  became  a  debutante,  wore  grace- 
ful white,  symbol  of  her  maiden  modesty. 

"You  promised  to  be  early,"  said  Horace,  addressing 
Mrs.  Damerel,  but  regarding  Fanny,  who  stood  in  con- 
versation with  a  florid  man  of  uncertain  age. 

u  Couldn't  get  here  before,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Surely  you  haven't  brought  that  fellow  with  you  ? " 

"  Hush !  You  mustn't  talk  in  that  way.  We  met  at 
the  door.  Mrs.  Dane  knows  him.  What  does  it  matter  ? " 

Horace  moved  aside  to  Fanny.  Flushed  with  excite- 
ment, her  hair  adorned  with  flowers,  she  looked  very  pretty. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  gripping  her  hand  more  vio- 
lently than  he  intended.  "  Let  us  get  upstairs." 

"  Oh,  you  hurt  me  !     Don't  be  so  silly." 

The  man  beside  her  gave  Horace  a  friendly  nod.  His 
name  was  Mankelow.  Horace  had  met  him  once  or  twice 
14 


206  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

of  late  at  Mrs.  Damerel's,  but  did  not  like  him,  and  felt 
still  less  disposed  to  do  so  now  that  Mankelow  was  ac- 
quainted with  Fanny  French.  He  suspected  that  the  two 
were  more  familiar  than  Fanny  pretended.  With  little 
ceremony,  he  interposed  himself  between  the  girl  arid  this 
possible  rival. 

"Why  didn't  you  make  her  come  earlier  ?"  he  said  to 
Fanny,  as  they  began  a  slow  upward  struggle  in  the  rear 
of  Mrs.  Damerel. 

"  It  isn't  fashionable  to  come  early." 

"  Nonsense  !     Look  at  the  people  here  already." 

Fanny  threw  up  her  chin,  and  glanced  back  to  see  that 
Mankelow  was  following.  In  his  vexation,  Horace  was 
seized  with  a  cough — a  cough  several  times  repeated  before 
he  could  check  it. 

"  Your  cold's  no  better,"  said  Fanny.  "  You  oughtn't 
to  have  come  out  at  night." 

"It  is  better,"  he  replied  sharply.  "That's  the  first 
time  I've  coughed  to-day.  Do  you  mean  you  would  rather 
not  have  found  me  here  ? " 

"  How  silly  you  are !  People  will  hear  what  you're 
saying." 

It  was  Fanny's  "  first  season,"  but  not  her  first  "  at 
home."  Mrs.  Damerel  seemed  to  be  taking  an  affectionate 
interest  in  her,  and  had  introduced  her  to  several  people. 
Horace,  gratified  in  the  beginning,  now  suffered  from 
jealousy;  it  tortured  him  to  observe  Fanny  when  she 
talked  with  men.  That  her  breeding  was  defective,  mat- 
tered nothing  in  this  composite  world  of  pseudo-elegance. 
Young  Lord,  who  did  not  lack  native  intelligence,  under- 
stood by  this  time  that  Mrs.  Damerel  and  her  friends  were 
far  from  belonging  to  a  high  order  of  society  ;  he  saw  vul- 
garity rampant  in  every  drawing-room  to  which  he  was 
admitted,  and  occasionally  heard  things  which  startled 
his  suburban  prejudices.  But  Fanny,  in  her  wild  enjoy- 
ment of  these  novel  splendours,  appeared  to  lose  all  self- 
control.  She  flirted  outrageously,  and  before  his  very  eyes. 
If  he  reproached  her,  she  laughed  at  him ;  if  he  threatened 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  207 

to  free  himself,  she  returned  a  look  which  impudently 
bade  him  try.  Horace  had  all  her  faults  by  heart,  and  no 
longer  tried  to  think  that  he  respected  her,  or  that,  if  he 
married  such  a  girl,  his  life  could  possibly  be  a  happy  one ; 
but  she  still  played  upon  his  passions,  and  at  her  beck  he 
followed  like  a  dog. 

The  hostess,  Mrs.  Dane,  a  woman  who  looked  as  if  she 
had  once  been  superior  to  the  kind  of  life  she  now  led, 
welcomed  him  with  peculiar  warmth,  and  in  a  quick  con- 
fidential voice  bade  him  keep  near  her  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  There's  some  one  I  want  to  introduce  you  to — some 
one  I'm  sure  you  will  like  to  know." 

Obeying  her,  he  soon  lost  sight  of  Fanny;  but  Mrs. 
Dane  continued  to  talk,  at  intervals,  in  such  a  flattering 
tone,  that  his  turbid  emotions  were  soothed.  He  had  heard 
of  the  Chittles  ?  No  ?  They  were  very  old  friends  of  hers, 
said  Mrs.  Dane,  and  she  particularly  wanted  him  to  know 
them.  Ah,  here  they  came  ;  mother  and  daughter.  Horace 
observed  them.  Mrs.  Chittle  was  a  frail,  worn,  nervous 
woman,  who  must  once  have  been  comely ;  her  daughter, 
a  girl  of  two-and-twenty,  had  a  pale,  thin  face  of  much 
sweetness  and  gentleness.  They  seemed  by  no  means  at 
home  in  this  company ;  but  Mrs.  Chittle,  when  she  con- 
versed, assumed  a  vivacious  air ;  the  daughter,  trying  to 
follow  her  example,  strove  vainly  against  an  excessive 
bashfulness,  and  seldom  raised  her  eyes.  Why  he  should 
be  expected  to  pay  special  attention  to  these  people,  Horace 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand  ;  but  Mrs.  Chittle  attached  her- 
self to  him,  and  soon  led  him  into  familiar  dialogue.  He 
learnt  from  her  that  they  had  lived  for  two  or  three  years 
in  a  very  quiet  country  place  ;  they  had  come  up  for  the 
season,  but  did  not  know  many  people.  She  spoke  of  her 
daughter,  who  stood  just  out  of  earshot, — her  eyes  cast 
down,  on  her  face  a  sad  fixed  smile, — and  said  that  it  had 
been  necessary  almost  to  force  her  into  society.  "She 
loves  the  country,  and  is  so  fond  of  books ;  but  at  her  age 
it's  really  a  shame  to  live  like  a  nun — don't  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Lord  ? "  Decidedly  it  was,  said  Horace.  "  I'm  doing 


208  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

my  best,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chittle,  "  to  cure  her  of  her  shy- 
ness. She  is  really  afraid  of  people — and  it's  such  a  pity. 
She  says  that  the  things  people  talk  about  don't  interest 
her ;  but  all  people  are  not  frivolous — are  they,  Mr.  Lord  ? " 
Horace  hoped  not ;  and  presently  out  of  mere  good-nature 
he  tried  to  converse  with  the  young  lady  in  a  way  that 
should  neither  alarm  her  shyness  nor  prove  distasteful  to 
her  intelligence.  But  with  very  little  success.  From  time 
to  time  the  girl  glanced  at  him  with  strange  timidity,  yet 
seemed  quite  willing  to  listen  as  long  as  he  chose  to  talk. 

Fanny,  being  at  a  considerable  distance  from  home, 
was  to  return  to  the  boarding-house  where  her  chaperon 
now  lived,  and  have  a  room  there  for  the  night.  Horace 
disliked  this  arrangement,  for  the  objectionable  Mankelow 
lived  in  the  same  house.  When  he  was  able  to  get  speech 
with  Fanny,  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  with  him  all 
the  way  home  to  Camberwell  in  a  cab.  Miss  French 
would  not  listen  to  the  suggestion. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ?  It  wouldn't  be 
proper." 

"  Proper !  Oh,  I  like  that ! "  he  replied,  with  scathing 
irony. 

"  You  can  either  like  it  or  not.  Mrs.  Damerel  wouldn't 
dream  of  allowing  it.  I  think  she's  quite  as  good  a  judge 
of  propriety  as  you  are." 

They  were  in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room.  Fanny, 
having  supped  much  to  her  satisfaction,  had  a  high  col- 
our, and  treated  her  lover  with  more  than  usual  insolence. 
Horace  had  eaten  little,  but  had  not  refrained  from  bever- 
ages ;  he  was  disposed  to  assert  himself. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  to  have  an  u^lerstand- 
ing.  You  never  do  as  I  wish  in  a  single  thing.  What  do 
you  mean  by  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  be  nasty- 
She  made  the  gesture  of  a  servant-girl  who  quarrels 
with  her  young  man  at  the  street-corner. 

"I  can't  stand  the  kind  of  treatment  you've  given  me 
lately,"  said  Horace,  with  muffled  anger. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  209 

"  I've  told  you  I  shall  do  just  as  I  like." 

"  Very  well.  That's  as  much  as  to  say  that  you  care 
nothing  about  me.  I'm  not  going1  to  be  the  slave  of  a  girl 
who  has  no  sense  of  honour — not  even  of  decency.  If  you 
wish  me  to  speak  to  you  again  you  must  speak  first." 

And  he  left  her,  Fanny  laughing  scornfully. 

It  drew  towards  one  o'clock  when,  having  exhausted 
the  delights  of  the  evening,  and  being  in  a  decidedly  limp 
condition,  Mrs.  Damerel  and  her  protegee  drove  home. 
Fanny  said  nothing  of  what  had  passed  between  her  and 
Horace.  The  elder  lady,  after  keeping  silence  for  half  the 
drive,  spoke  at  length  in  a  tone  of  indulgent  playful- 
ness. 

"  So  you  talked  a  good  deal  with  Mr.  Mankelow  ? " 

"  Not  for  long.  Now  and  then.  He  took  me  down  to 
supper — the  first  time." 

"  I'm  afraid  somebody  will  be  a  little  jealous.  I  shall 
get  into  trouble.  I  didn't  foresee  this." 

"  Somebody  must  treat  me  in  a  reasonable  way,"  Fanny 
answered,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"I'm  quite  sure  he  will,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel  suavely. 
*'  But  I  feel  myself  a  little  responsible,  you  know.  Let 
me  put  you  on  your  guard  against  Mr.  Mankelow.  I'm 
afraid  he's  rather  a  dangerous  man.  I  have  heard  rather 
alarming  stories  about  him.  You  see  he's  very  rich,  and 
very  rich  men,  if  they're  rather  handsome  as  well,  say  and 
do  things — you  understand  ? " 

"  Is  he  really  very  rich  ? " 

"Well,  several  thousands  a  year,  and  a  prospect  of 
more  when  relatives  die.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  is  a 
bad  man.  He  belongs  to  a  very  good  family,  and  I  believe 
him  perfectly  honourable.  He  would  never  do  any  one 
any  harm — or,  if  he  happened  to,  without  meaning  it,  I'm 
quite  sure  he'd  repair  it  in  the  honourable  way." 

"  You  said  he  was  dangerous — 

"  To  a  young  lady  who  is  already  engaged.  Confess 
that  you  think  him  rather  good-looking." 

Having  inflamed  the  girl's  imagination,  Mrs.  Damerel 


210  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

presently  dropped  the  subject,  and  fell  again  into  weary 
silence. 

At  noon  of  the  next  day  she  received  a  call  from 
Horace,  who  found  her  over  tea  and  toast  in  her  private 
sitting-room.  The  young  man  looked  bilious ;  he  coughed, 
too,  and  said  that  he  must  have  caught  fresh  cold  last 
night. 

"  That  house  was  like  an  oven.  I  won't  go  to  any  more 
such  places.  That  isn't  my  idea  of  enjoying  myself." 

Mrs.  Damerel  examined  him  with  affectionate  solici- 
tude, and  reflected  before  speaking. 

"  Haven't  you  been  living  rather  fast  lately  ? " 

He  avoided  her  eyes. 

"Not  at  all." 

"  Quite  sure  ?  How  much  money  have  you  spent  this 
last  month  ? " 

"Not  much." 

By  careful  interrogation — the  caressing  notes  of  her 
voice  seemed  to  convey  genuine  feeling — Mrs.  Damerel 
elicited  the  fact  that  he  had  spent  not  less  than  fifty  pounds 
in  a  few  weeks.  She  looked  very  grave. 

"  What  would  our  little  Fanny  say  to  this  ? " 

"  I  don't  care  what  she  would  say." 

And  he  unburdened  himself  of  his  complaints  against 
the  frivolous  charmer,  Mrs.  Damerel  listening  with  a  com- 
passionate smile. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  all  too  true,  dear  boy.  But  didn't  I 
warn  you  ? " 

"You  have  made  her  worse.  And  I  more  than  half 
believe  you  have  purposely  put  her  in  the  way  of  that 
fellow  Mankelow.  Now  I  tell  you  plainly" — his  voice 
quivered — "  if  I  lose  her,  I'll  raise  all  the  money  I  can  and 
play  the  very  devil." 

"  Hush  !  no  naughty  words  !  Let  us  talk  about  some- 
thing else  till  you  are  quieter. — What  did  you  think  of 
Mrs.  Chittle?" 

"  I  thought  nothing  of  her,  good  or  bad." 

"  Of  her  daughter,  then.    Isn't  she  a  sweet,  quiet  girl  ? 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  211 

Do  you  know  that  she  is  rich  ?  It's  perfectly  true.  Mrs. 
Chittle  is  the  widow  of  a  man  who  made  a  big  fortune  out 
of  a  kind  of  imitation  velvet.  It  sold  only  for  a  few  years, 
then  something  else  drove  it  out  of  the  market ;  but  the 
money  was  made.  I  know  all  about  it  from  Mrs.  Dane." 

"It's  nothing  to  me,"  said  Horace  peevishly. 

But  Mrs.  Damerel  continued  : 

"  The  poor  girl  has  been  very  unfortunate.  In  the  last 
year  of  her  father's  life  they  lived  in  good  style,  town- 
house  and  country-house.  And  she  fell  in  love  with  some- 
body who — who  treated  her  badly ;  broke  it  off,  in  fact, 
just  before  the  wedding.  She  had  a  bad  illness,  and  since 
then  she  has  lived  as  her  mother  told  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  told  me  ? " 

"  I — oh,  I  took  it  for  granted.  She  said  you  had  had  a 
long  talk.  You  can  see,  of  course,  that  they're  not  ordi- 
nary people.  Didn't  .Winifred — her  name  is  Winifred — 
strike  you  as  very  refined  and  lady-like  ? " 

"She  hardly  spoke  half-a-dozen  words." 

"  That's  her  nervousness.  She  has  quite  got  out  of  the 
habit  of  society.  But  she's  very  clever,  and  so  good.  I 
want  you  to  see  more  of  her.  If  she  comes  here  to  tea, 
will  you — just  to  please  me — look  in  for  half-an-hour  ? " 

She  bent  her  head  aside,  wistfully.  Horace  vouchsafed 
no  reply. 

"  Dear  boy,  I  know  very  well  what  a  disappointment 
you  are  suffering.  Why  not  be  quite  open  with  me  ? 
Though  I'm  only  a  tiresome  old  aunt,  I  feel  every  bit  as 
anxious  for  your  happiness  as  if  I  were  your  mother — I  do 
indeed,  Horace.  You  believe  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  in  many  ways.  But  you've 
done  harm  to  Fanny — 

"  No  harm  whatever,  Horace — believe  me.  I  have  only 
given  her  an  opportunity  of  showing  what  she  really  is. 
You  see  now  that  she  thinks  of  nothing  at  all  but  money 
and  selfish  pleasures.  Compare  her,  my  dear,  with  such  a 
girl  as  Winifred  Chittle.  I  only  mean — just  to  show  you 
the  difference  between  a  lady  and  such  a  girl  as  Fanny. 


212  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

She  has  treated  you  abominably,  my  poor  boy.  And  what 
would  she  bring  you  ?  Not  that  I  wish  you  to  marry  for 
money.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  the  world  to  be  so 
foolish,  so  wicked.  But  when  there  are  sweet,  clever, 
lady-like  girls,  with  large  incomes — !  And  a  handsome 
boy  like  you !  You  may  blush,  but  there's  no  harm  in 
telling  the  truth.  You  are  far  too  modest.  You  don't 
know  how  you  look  in  the  eyes  of  an  affectionate,  thought- 
ful girl — like  Winifred,  for  instance.  It's  dreadful  to  think 
of  you  throwing  yourself  away !  My  dear,  it  may  sound 
shocking  to  you,  but  Fanny  French  isn't  the  sort  of  girl 
that  men  marry" 

Horace  showed  himself  startled. 

"You  are  so  young,"  pursued  the  mature  lady,  with  an 
indulgent  smile.  "  You  need  the  advice  of  some  one  who 
knows  the  world.  In  years  to  come,  you  will  feel  grateful 
to  me.  Now  don't  let  us  talk  any  more  of  that,  just  now ; 
but  tell  me  something  about  Nancy.  How  much  longer 
does  she  mean  to  stay  in  Cornwall  ? " 

He  answered  absently. 

"  She  talks  of  another  month  or  two." 

"  But  what  have  her  guardians  to  say  to  that  ?  Why, 
she  has  been  away  for  nearly  half  a  year.  How  can  that 
be  called  living  at  the  old  house  ? " 

"  It's  no  business  of  mine." 

"Nor  of  mine,  you  mean  to  say.  Still,  it  does  seem 
rather  strange.  I  suppose  she  is  quite  to  be  trusted  ? " 

"  Trusted  ?  What  harm  can  come  to  her  ?  She's 
keeping  out  of  Sam  Barmby's  way,  that's  all.  I  be- 
lieve he  plagued  her  to  marry  him.  A  nice  husband  for 
Nancy ! " 

"  I  wish  we  had  taken  to  each  other,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel 
musingly.  "  I  think  she  was  a  little  jealous  of  the  atten- 
tion I  had  paid  to  you.  But  perhaps  we  shall  do  better  some 
day.  And  I'm  quite  content  so  long  as  you  care  a  little  for 
me,  dear  boy.  You'll  never  give  me  up,  will  you  ? " 

It  was  asked  with  unusual  show  of  feeling ;  she  leaned 
forward,  her  eyes  fixed  tenderly  upon  the  boy's  face. 


IN  THE  YEAR   OF  JUBILEE.  213 

"  You  would  never  let  a  Fanny  French  come  between 
us,  Horace  dear  ? " 

"I  only  wish  you  hadn't  brought  her  among  your 
friends." 

"  Some  day  you  will  be  glad  of  what  I  did.  Whatever 
happens,  I  am  your  best  friend — the  best  and  truest  friend 
you  will  ever  have.  You  will  know  it  some  day." 

The  voice  impressed  Horace,  its  emotion  was  so  true. 
Several  times  through  the  day  he  recalled  and  thought  of 
it.  As  yet  he  had  felt  nothing  like  affection  for  Mrs. 
Damerel,  but  before  their  next  meeting  an  impulse  he  did 
not  try  to  account  for  caused  him  to  write  her  a  letter — 
simply  to  assure  her  that  he  was  not  ungrateful  for  her 
kindness.  The  reply  that  came  in  a  few  hours  surprised 
and  touched  him,  for  it  repeated  in  yet  warmer  words  all 
she  had  spoken.  "  Let  me  be  in  the  place  of  a  mother  to 
you,  dear  Horace.  Think  of  me  as  if  I  were  your  mother. 
If  I  were  your  mother  indeed,  I  could  not  love  you  more." 
He  mused  over  this,  and  received  from  it  a  sense  of  com- 
fort which  was  quite  new  to  him. 

All  through  the  winter  he  had  been  living  as  a  gentle- 
man of  assured  independence.  This  was  managed  very 
simply.  Acting  on  Mrs.  Damerel's  counsel  he  insured  his 
life,  and  straightway  used  the  policy  as  security  for  a  loan 
of  five  hundred  pounds  from  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Damerel's. 
The  insurance  itself  was  not  effected  without  a  disagree- 
able little  episode.  As  a  result  of  the  medical  examina- 
tion, Horace  learnt,  greatly  to  his  surprise,  that  he  would 
have  to  pay  a  premium  somewhat  higher  than  the  ordi- 
nary. Unpleasant  questions  were  asked:  Was  he  quite 
sure  that  he  knew  of  no  case  of  consumption  in  his  fami- 
ly ?  Quite  sure,  he  answered  stoutly,  and  sincerely.  Why  ? 
Did  the  doctor  think  him  consumptive  ?  Oh  dear  no,  but 
— a  slight  constitutional  weakness.  In  fine,  the  higher 
premium  must  be  exacted.  He  paid  it  with  the  indiffer- 
ence of  his  years,  but  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Damerel. 

And  thereupon  began  the  sowing  of  wild  oats.  At  two- 
and-twenty,  after  domestic  restraint  and  occupations  that 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

he  detested,  he  was  let  loose  upon  life.  Five  hundred 
pounds  seemed  to  him  practically  inexhaustible.  He  did 
not  wish  to  indulge  in  great  extravagance ;  merely  to  see 
and  to  taste  the  world. 

Ah,  the  rapture  of  those  first  nights,  when  he  revelled 
amid  the  tumult  of  London,  pursuing  joy  with  a  pocket 
full  of  sovereigns !  Theatres,  music-halls,  restaurants  and 
public-houses — he  had  seen  so  little  of  these  things,  that 
they  excited  him  as  they  do  a  lad  fresh  from  the  country. 
He  drew  the  line  nowhere.  By  a  miracle  he  had  as  yet 
escaped  worse  damage  to  health  than  a  severe  cold,  caught 
one  night  after  heroic  drinking.  That  laid  him  by  the 
heels  for  a  time,  and  the  cough  still  clung  to  him. 

In  less  than  two  years  he  would  command  seven  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  a  share  in  the  business  now  conducted 
by  Samuel  Barmby.  What  need  to  stint  himself  whilst 
he  felt  able  to  enjoy  life  ?  If  Fanny  deceived  him,  were 
there  not,  after  all,  other  and  better  Fannys  to  be  won  by 
his  money  ?  For  it  was  a  result  of  this  girl's  worthless- 
ness  that  Horace,  in  most  things  so  ingenuous,  had  come 
to  regard  women  with  unconscious  cynicism.  He  did  not 
think  he  could  be  loved  for  his  own  sake,  but  he  believed 
that,  at  any  time,  the  show  of  love,  perhaps  its  ultimate 
sincerity,  might  be  won  by  display  of  cash. 

Midway  in  the  month  of  May  he  again  caught  a  severe 
cold,  and  was  confined  to  the  house  for  nearly  three  weeks. 
Mrs.  Damerel,  who  nursed  him  well  and  tenderly,  proposed 
that  he  should  go  down  for  change  of  air  to  Falmouth.  He 
wrote  to  Nancy,  asking  whether  she  would  care  to  see  him. 
A  prompt  reply  informed  him  that  his  sister  was  on  the 
point  of  returning  to  London,  so  that  he  had  better  choose 
some  nearer  seaside  resort. 

He  went  to  Hastings  for  a  few  days,  but  wearied  of  the 
place,  and  came  back  to  his  London  excitements.  Nancy, 
however,  had  not  yet  returned ;  nor  did  she  until  the  be- 
ginning of  July. 


IN  THE  TEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  215 

IV 

THIS  winter  saw  the  establishment  of  the  South  Lon- 
don Fashionable  Dress  Supply  Association — the  name 
finally  selected  by  Beatrice  French  and  her  advisers.  It 
was  an  undertaking  shrewdly  conceived,  skilfully  planned, 
and  energetically  set  going.  Beatrice  knew  the  public  to 
which  her  advertisements  appealed ;  she  understood  ex- 
actly the  baits  that  would  prove  irresistible  to  its  folly  and 
greed.  In  respect  that  it  was  a  public  of  average  mortals, 
it  would  believe  that  business  might  be  conducted  to  the 
sole  advantage  of  the  customer.  In  respect  that  it  con- 
sisted of  women,  it  would  give  eager  attention  to  a  scheme 
that  permitted  each  customer  to  spend  her  money,  and  yet 
to  have  it.  In  respect  that  it  consisted  of  ignorant  and 
pretentious  women,  this  public  could  be  counted  upon  to 
deceive  itself  in  the  service  of  its  own  vanity,  and  main- 
tain against  all  opposition  that  the  garments  obtained  on 
this  soothing  system  were  supremely  good  and  fashionable. 

On  a  basis  of  assumptions  such  as  these,  there  was  every 
possibility  of  profitable  commerce  without  any  approach  to 
technical  fraud. 

By  means  of  the  familiar  "  goose-club,"  licensed  victual- 
lers make  themselves  the  bankers  of  people  who  are  too 
weak-minded  to  save  their  own  money  until  they  wish  to 
spend  it,  and  who  are  quite  content  to  receive  in  ultimate 
return  goods  worth  something  less  than  half  the  deposit. 
By  means  of  the  familiar  teapot,  grocers  persuade  their 
customers  that  an  excellent  trade  can  be  done  by  giving 
away  the  whole  profit  on  each  transaction.  Beatrice 
French,  an  observant  young  woman,  with  a  head  for  fig- 
ures, had  often  noted  and  reflected  upon  these  two  egregious 
illustrations  of  human  absurdity.  Her  dressmaking  en- 
terprise assimilated  the  features  of  both,  and  added  novel 
devices  that  sprang  from  her  own  fruitful  brain.  The 
"Fashion  Club,"  a  wheel  within  a  wheel,  was  merely  the 
goose-club ;  strictly  a  goose-club,  for  the  licensed  victual- 
ler addresses  himself  to  the  male  of  the  species.  The  larger 


216  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

net,  cast  for  those  who  lacked  money  or  a  spirit  of  specu- 
lation, caught  all  who,  in  the  realm  of  grocery,  are  lured 
by  the  teapot.  Every  sovereign  spent  with  the  Association 
carried  a  bonus,  paid  not  in  cash  but  in  kind.  These  star- 
tling advantages  were  made  known  through  the  medium 
of  hand-bills,  leaflets,  nicely  printed  little  pamphlets,  gor- 
geously designed  placards ;  the  publicity  department,  be- 
ing in  the  hands  of  Mr,  Luckworth  Crewe,  of  Farringdon 
Street,  was  most  ably  and  vigorously  conducted. 

Thanks  also  to  Luckworth  Crewe,  Beatrice  had  allied 
herself  with  partners,  who  brought  to  the  affair  capital, 
experience,  and  activity.  Before  Christmas — an  important 
point — the  scene  of  operations  was  ready :  a  handsome 
shop,  with  the  new  and  attractive  appendages  (so-called 
u  club-room,"  refreshment-bar,  &c.)  which  Crewe  and 
Beatrice  had  visioned  in  their  prophetic  minds.  Before 
the  close  of  the  year  substantial  business  had  been  done, 
and  1888  opened  with  exhilarating  prospects. 

The  ineptitude  of  uneducated  English  women  in  all 
that  relates  to  their  attire  is  a  fact  that  it  boots  not  to  en- 
large upon.  Beatrice  French  could  not  be  regarded  as  an 
exception;  for  though  she  recognised  monstrosities,  she 
very  reasonably  distrusted  her  own  taste  in  the  choice  of 
a  garment.  For  her  sisters,  monstrosities  had  a  distinct 
charm,  and  to  this  class  of  women  belonged  all  customers 
of  the  Association  who  pretended  to  think  for  themselves 
as  to  wherewithal  they  should  be  clothed.  But  women  in 
general  came  to  the  shop  with  confessed  blankness  of 
mind ;  beyond  the  desire  to  buy  something  that  was  mod- 
ish, and  to  pay  for  it  in  a  minus  quantity,  they  knew,  felt, 
thought  nothing  whatever.  Green  or  violet,  cerulean  or 
magenta,  all  was  one  to  them.  In  the  matter  of  shape 
they  sought  merely  a  confident  assurance  from  articulate 
man  or  woman — themselves  being  somewhat  less  articu- 
late than  jay  or  jackdaw — that  this  or  that  was  uthe  fea- 
ture of  the  season."  They  could  not  distinguish  between  a 
becoming  garment  and  one  that  called  for  the  consuming 
fires  of  Heaven.  It  is  often  assumed  as  a  commonplace 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  217 

that  women,  whatever  else  they  cannot  do,  may  be  trusted 
to  make  up  their  minds  about  habiliments.  Nothing  more 
false,  as  Beatrice  French  was  abundantly  aware.  A  very 
large  proportion  of  the  servant-keeping  females  in  Brix- 
ton,  Camberwell,  and  Peckham  could  not,  with  any  confi- 
dence, buy  a  chemise  or  a  pair  of  stockings  ;  and  when  it 
came  to  garments  visible,  they  were  lost  indeed. 

Fanny  French  began  to  regret  that  she  had  not  realised 
her  capital,  and  put  it  into  the  Association.  Wishing  at 
length  to  do  so,  she  met  with  a  scornful  rebuff.  Beatrice 
would  have  none  of  her  money,  but  told  her  she  might 
use  the  shop  like  any  other  customer,  which  of  course 
Fanny  did. 

Mrs.  Peachey,  meanwhile,  kept  declaring  to  both  her 
sisters  that  they  must  not  expect  to  live  henceforth  in  De 
Crespigny  Park  on  the  old  nominal  terms.  Beatrice  was 
on  the  way  to  wealth  ;  Fanny  moved  in  West  End  society, 
under  the  chaperonage  of  a  rich  woman ;  they  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  for  not  volunteering  handsome 
recognition  of  the  benefits  they  had  received  beneath  their 
sister's  roof.  But  neither  Beatrice  nor  Fanny  appeared  to 
see  the  matter  in  this  light.  The  truth  was,  that  they  both 
had  in  view  a  change  of  domicile.  The  elder  desired 
more  comfort  and  more  independence  than  De  Crespigny 
Park  could  afford  her ;  the  younger  desired  a  great  many 
things,  and  flattered  herself  that  a  very  simple  step  would 
put  her  in  possession  of  them. 

The  master  of  the  house  no  longer  took  any  interest  in 
the  fortunes  of  his  sisters-in  law.  He  would  not  bid  them 
depart,  he  would  not  bid  them  stay,  least  of  all  would  he 
demand  money  from  them.  Of  money  he  had  no  need, 
and  he  was  the  hapless  possessor  of  a  characteristic  not  to 
be  found  in  any  other  member  of  his  household — natural 
delicacy. 

Arthur  Peachey  lived  only  for  his  child,  the  little  boy, 
whose  newly  prattling  tongue  made  the  sole  welcome  he 
expected  or  cared  for  on  his  return  from  a  hard  day's 
work.  Happily  the  child  had  good  health,  but  he  never 


218  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

left  home  without  dread  of  perils  that  might  befall  it  in 
his  absence.  On  the  mother  he  counted  not  at  all ;  a  good- 
tempered  cow  might  with  more  confidence  have  been  set 
to  watch  over  the  little  one's  safety.  The  nurse-girl 
Emma,  retained  in  spite  of  her  mistress's  malice,  still 
seemed  to  discharge  her  duties  faithfully ;  but,  being  mor- 
tal, she  demanded  intervals  of  leisure  from  time  to  time, 
and  at  such  seasons,  as  Peachey  too  well  knew,  the  child 
was  uncared  for.  Had  his  heart  been  resolute  as  it  was 
tender,  he  would  long  ago  have  carried  out  a  project  which 
haunted  him  at  every  moment  of  anger  or  fear.  In  the 
town  of  Canterbury  lived  a  sister  of  his  who  for  several 
years  had  been  happily  wedded,  but  remained  childless. 
If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  if  his  wife  compelled  him 
to  the  breaking-up  of  a  home  which  was  no  home,  this 
married  sister  would  gladly  take  the  little  boy  into  her 
motherly  care.  He  had  never  dared  to  propose  the  step ; 
but  Ada  might  perchance  give  ready  assent  to  it,  even 
now. 

For  motherhood  she  had  no  single  qualification  but  the 
physical.  Before  her  child's  coming  into  the  world,  she 
snarled  at  the  restraints  it  imposed  upon  her ;  at  its  birth, 
she  clamoured  against  nature  for  the  pains  she  had  to  un- 
dergo, and  hated  her  husband  because  he  was  the  inter- 
mediate cause  of  them.  The  helpless  infant  gave  her  no 
pleasure,  touched  no  emotion  in  her  heart,  save  when  she 
saw  it  in  the  nurse's  care,  and  received  female  compli- 
ments upon  its  beauty.  She  rejected  it  at  night  because  it 
broke  her  sleep  ;  in  the  day,  because  she  could  not  handle 
it  without  making  it  cry.  When  Peachey  remonstrated 
with  her,  she  stared  in  insolent  surprise,  and  wished  that 
he  had  had  to  suffer  all  her  hardships  of  the  past  year. 

Peachey  could  not  be  said  to  have  any  leisure.  On  re- 
turning from  business  he  was  involved  forthwith  in  do- 
mestic troubles  and  broils,  which  consumed  the  dreary 
evening,  and  invaded  even  his  sleep.  Thus  it  happened 
that  at  long  intervals  he  was  tempted,  instead  of  going 
home  to  dinner,  to  spend  a  couple  of  hours  at  a  certain 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  219 

small  eating-house,  a  resort  of  his  bachelor  days,  where  he 
could  read  the  newspapers,  have  a  well-cooked  chop  in 
quietude,  and  afterwards,  if  acquaintances  were  here,  play 
a  game  of  chess.  Of  course  he  had  to  shield  this  modest 
dissipation  with  a  flat  falsehood,  alleging  to  his  wife  that 
business  had  kept  him  late.  Thus  on  an  evening  of  June, 
when  the  soft  air  and  the  mellow  sunlight  overcame  him 
with  a  longing  for  rest,  he  despatched  a  telegram  to  De 
Crespigny  Park,  and  strolled  quietly  about  the  streets 
until  the  hour  and  his  appetite  pointed  him  tablewards. 
The  pity  of  it  was  that  he  could  not  dismiss  anxieties ;  he 
loathed  the  coward  falsehood,  and  thought  more  of  home 
than  of  his  present  freedom.  But  at  least  Ada's  tongue 
was  silent. 

He  seated  himself  in  the  familiar  corner,  and  turned 
over  illustrated  papers,  whilst  his  chop  hissed  on  the  grid. 
Ah,  if  he  were  but  unmarried,  what  a  life  he  might  make 
for  himself  now  that  the  day's  labour  brought  its  ample 
reward !  He  would  have  rooms  in  London,  and  a  still, 
clean  lodging  somewhere  among  the  lanes  and  fields. 
His  ideals  expressed  the  homeliness  of  the  man.  On  intel- 
lect he  could  not  pride  himself ;  his  education  had  been  but 
of  the  "  commercial "  order ;  he  liked  to  meditate  rather  than 
to  read  ;  questions  of  the  day  concerned  him  not  at  all.  A 
weak  man,  but  of  clean  and  kindly  instincts.  In  mercan- 
tile life  he  had  succeeded  by  virtue  of  his  intensely  me- 
thodical habits — the  characteristic  which  made  him  suffer 
so  from  his  wife's  indolence,  incapacity,  and  vicious  ill- 
humour. 

Before  his  marriage  he  had  thought  of  women  as  do- 
mestic beings.  A  wife  was  the  genius  of  home.  He  knew 
men  who  thanked  their  wives  for  all  the  prosperity  and 
content  that  they  enjoyed.  Others  he  knew  who  told  quite 
a  different  tale,  but  these  surely  were  sorrowful  exceptions. 
Nowadays  he  saw  the  matter  in  a  light  of  fuller  experi- 
ence. In  his  rank  of  life  married  happiness  was  a  rare 
thing,  and  the  fault  could  generally  be  traced  to  wives 
who  had  no  sense  of  responsibility,  no  understanding 


220  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

of  household  duties,  no  love  of  simple  pleasures,  no  re- 
ligion. 

Yes,  there  was  the  point — no  religion.  Ada  had  grown 
up  to  regard  church-going  as  a  sign  of  respectability,  but 
without  a  shadow  of  religious  faith.  Her  incredible  igno- 
rance of  the  Bible  story,  of  Christian  dogmas,  often  amazed 
him.  Himself  a  believer,  though  careless  in  the  practice 
of  forms,  he  was  not  disturbed  by  the  modern  tendency  to 
look  for  morals  apart  from  faith ;  he  had  not  the  trouble 
of  reflecting  that  an  ignorant  woman  is  the  last  creature 
to  be  moralised  by  anything  but  the  Christian  code ;  he 
saw  straight  into  the  fact — that  there  was  no  hope  of  im- 
pressing Ada  with  ideas  of  goodness,  truthfulness,  purity, 
simply  because  she  recognised  no  moral  authority. 

For  such  minds  no  moral  authority — merely  as  a  moral 
authority — is  or  can  be  valid.  Such  natures  are  ruled 
only  by  superstition — the  representative  of  reasoned  faith 
in  nobler  beings.  Rob  them  of  their  superstition,  and  they 
perish  amid  all  uncleanliness. 

Thou  shalt  not  lie — for  God  consumes  a  liar  in  the 
flames  of  hell !  Ada  Peachey  could  lend  ear  to  no  admoni- 
tion short  of  that.  And,  living  when  she  did,  bred  as  she 
was,  only  a  John  Knox  could  have  impressed  her  with 
this  menace — to  be  forgotten  when  the  echoes  of  his  voice 
had  failed. 

He  did  not  enjoy  his  chop  this  evening.  In  the  game 
of  chess  that  followed  he  played  idly,  with  absent 
thoughts.  And  before  the  glow  of  sunset  had  died  from 
the  calm  heaven  he  set  out  to  walk  homeward,  anxious, 
melancholy. 

On  approaching  the  house  he  suffered,  as  always,  from 
quickened  pulse  and  heart  constricted  with  fear.  Until  he 
knew  that  all  was  well,  he  looked  like  a  man  who  antici- 
pates dread  calamity.  This  evening,  on  opening  the  door, 
he  fell  back  terror-stricken.  In  the  hall  stood  a  police- 
constable,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  women  :  Mrs.  Peach- 
ey, her  sisters,  Emma  the  nurse-girl,  and  two  other  serv- 
ants. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  at  last ! "  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  a 
voice  exhausted  with  rage.  "  You're  just  in  time  to  see 
this  beast  taken  off  to  the  lock-up.  Perhaps  you'll  believe 
me  now ! " 

u  What  is  it  ?    What  has  she  done  ? " 

"  Stolen  money,  that's  what  she's  done — your  precious 
Emma !  She's  been  at  it  for  a  long  time ;  I've  told  you 
some  one  was  robbing  me.  So  I  marked  some  coins  in 
my  purse,  and  left  it  in  the  bedroom  whilst  we  were  at  din- 
ner ;  and  then,  when  I  found  half-a-crowii  gone — and  it 
was  her  evening  out,  too — I  sent  for  a  policeman  before 
she  knew  anything,  and  we  made  her  turn  out  her  pockets. 
And  there's  the  half-crown  !  Perhaps  you'll  believe  it  this 
time ! " 

The  girl's  face  declared  her  guilt;  she  had  hardly 
attempted  denial.  Then,  with  a  clamour  of  furious  ver- 
bosity, Ada  enlightened  her  husband  on  other  points  of 
Emma's  behaviour.  It  was  a  long  story,  gathered,  in  the 
last  few  minutes,  partly  from  the  culprit  herself,  partly 
from  her  fellow-servants.  Emma  had  got  into  the 
clutches  of  a  jewellery  tallyman,  one  of  the  fellows  who 
sell  trinkets  to  servant-girls  on  the  pay-by-instalment 
system.  She  had  made  several  purchases  of  gewgaws,  arid 
had  already  paid  three  or  four  times  their  value,  but  was 
still  in  debt  to  the  tallyman,  who  threatened  all  manner 
of  impossible  proceedings  if  she  did  not  make  up  her 
arrears.  Bottomless  ignorance  and  imbecile  vanity  had 
been  the  girl's  ruin,  aided  by  a  grave  indiscretion  on 
Peachey's  part,  of  which  he  was  to  hear  presently. 

Some  one  must  go  to  the  police-station  and  make  a 
formal  charge.  Ada  would  undertake  this  duty  with 
pious  eagerness,  enjoying  it  all  the  more  because  of  loud 
wail  ings  and  entreaties  which  the  girl  now  addressed  to 
her  master.  Peachey  looked  at  his  sisters-in-law,  and  in 
neither  face  perceived  a  compassionate  softening.  Fanny 
stood  by  as  at  a  spectacle  provided  for  her  amusement, 
without  rancour,  but  equally  without  pity.  Beatrice  was 
contemptuous.  What  right,  said  her  countenance,  had 
15 


222  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

a  servant-girl  to  covet  jewellery  ?  And  how  pitiable  the 
spirit  that  prompted  to  a  filching-  of  half-crowns  !  For  the 
criminals  of  finance,  who  devastate  a  thousand  homes, 
Miss  French  had  no  small  admiration  ;  crimes  such  as  the 
present  were  mean  and  dirty. 

Ada  reappeared,  hurriedly  clad  for  going  forth ;  but 
no  one  had  fetched  a  cab.  Incensed,  she  ordered  her  hus- 
band to  do  so. 

"  Who  are  you  speaking  to  ? "  he  replied  wrathfully. 
"  I  am  not  your  servant." 

Fanny  laughed.  The  policeman,  professionally  calm, 
averted  a  smiling  face. 

"  It's  nothing  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Peachey.  "  I'm  quite 
willing  to  walk.  Come  along,  constable." 

Her  husband  interposed. 

"  The  girl  doesn't  go  from  my  house  until  she's  prop- 
erly dressed."  He  turned  to  the  other  servants.  "  Please 
to  blow  the  whistle  at  the  door,  or  get  a  cab  somehow. 
Emma,  go  upstairs  and  put  your  things  on." 

"It  was  about  time  you  behaved  like  a  man,"  fell 
quietly  from  Beatrice. 

"You're  right."  He  looked  sternly  at  the  speaker.  "  It 
is  time,  and  that  you  shall  all  know." 

The  culprit,  suddenly  silent,  obeyed  his  order.  The 
constable  went  out  at  the  front  door,  and  there  waited 
whilst  a  cab-summoning  whistle  shrilled  along  De  Cres- 
pigny  Park. 

Ada  had  ascended  to  the  first  landing,  to  make  sure 
that  the  culprit  did  not  escape  her.  Beatrice  and  Fanny 
retired  into  the  drawing-room.  After  a  lapse  of  some  ten 
minutes  two  cabs  rattled  up  to  the  door  from  opposite 
directions,  each  driver  lashing  his  horse  to  gain  the  ad- 
vantage. So  nearly  were  they  matched,  that  with  diffi- 
culty the  vehicles  avoided  a  collision.  The  man  who  had 
secured  a  place  immediately  in  front  of  the  doorsteps, 
waved  his  whip  and  uttered  a  shout  of  insulting  triumph  ; 
his  rival  answered  with  volleys  of  abuse,  and  drove  round 
as  if  meditating  an  assault ;  it  was  necessary  for  the  police- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  223 

man  to  interfere.  Whereupon  the  defeated  competitor 
vowed  that  it  was  sanguinary  hard  lines  ;  that  for  the  san- 
guinary whole  of  this  sanguinary  day  had  he  waited 
vainly  for  a  sanguinary  fare,  and  but  for  a  sanguinary 
stumble  of  his  sanguinary  horse — 

Tired  of  waiting,  and  suspicious  of  the  delay,  Ada 
went  up  to  the  room  where  the  servant  was  supposed  to 
be  making  ready.  It  was  a  little  room,  which  served  as 
night-nursery ;  by  the  girl's  bed  stood  a  cot  occupied  by 
the  child.  Ada,  exclaiming  "  Now,  come  along ! "  opened 
the  door  violently.  A  candle  was  burning;  the  boy, 
awake  but  silent,  sat  up  in  his  cot,  and  looked  about  with 
sleepy,  yet  frightened  eyes. 

"  Where  are  you  ? " 

Emma  could  not  be  seen.  Astonished  and  enraged, 
Ada  rushed  forward ;  she  found  the  girl  lying  on  the 
floor,  and  after  bending  over  her,  started  back  with  a  cry 
half  of  alarm,  half  of  disgust. 

"  Come  up  here  at  once ! "  she  screamed  down  the 
staircase.  "  Come  up !  The  wretch  has  cut  her 
throat ! " 

There  was  a  rush  of  feet.  Peachey,  the  first  to  enter, 
saw  a  gash  on  the  neck  of  the  insensible  girl ;  in  her  hand 
she  held  a  pair  of  scissors. 

"  I  hope  you're  satisfied,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

The  police-officer,  animated  by  a  brisk  succession  of 
events  such  as  he  could  not  hope  for  every  day,  raised  the 
prostrate  figure,  and  speedily  announced  that  the  wound 
was  not  mortal. 

"  She's  fainted,  that's  all.  Tried  to  do  for  herself  with 
them  scissors,  and  didn't  know  the  way  to  go  about  it. 
We'll  get  her  off  sharp  to  the  surgeon." 

"  It'll  be  attempted  suicide,  now,  as  well  as  stealing," 
cried  Ada. 

Terrified  by  the  crowd  of  noisy  people,  the  child  began 
to  cry  loudly.  Peachey  lifted  him  out  of  the  cot,  wrapped 
a  blanket  about  him,  and  carried  him  down  to  his  own 
bedroom.  There,  heedless  of  what  was  going  on  above, 


224  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

he  tried  to  soothe  the  little  fellow,  lavishing  caresses  and 
tender  words. 

uMy  little  boy  will  be  good  ?  He'll  wait  here,  quietly, 
till  father  comes  back  ?  Only  a  few  minutes,  and  father 
will  come  back,  and  sit  by  him.  Yes — he  shall  sleep  here, 
all  night — 

Ada  burst  into  the  room. 

"I  should  think  you'd  better  go  and  look  after  your 
dear  Emma.  As  if  I  didn't  know  what's  bee'n  going  on  ! 
It's  all  come  out,  so  you  needn't  tell  me  any  lies.  You've 
been  giving  her  money.  The  other  servants  knew  of  it ; 
she  confessed  it  herself.  Oh,  you're  a  nice  sort  of  man, 
you  are !  Men  of  your  sort  are  always  good  at  preaching 
to  other  people.  You've  given  her  money — what  does 
that  mean  ?  I  suspected  it  all  along.  You  wouldn't 
have  her  sent  away ;  oh  no !  She  was  so  good  to  the 
child — and  so  good  to  somebody  else!  How  much  has 
she  cost  you  ? '" 

Peachey  turned  upon  her,  the  sweat  beading  on  his 
ghastly  face. 

"  Go  ! — Out  of  this  room — or  by  God  I  shall  do  some- 
thing fearful !— Out ! " 

She  backed  before  him.  He  seized  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  flung  her  forth,  then  locked  the  door.  From 
without  she  railed  at  him  in  the  language  of  the  gutter. 
Presently  her  shouts  were  mingled  with  piercing  shrieks ; 
they  came  from  the  would-be-suicide,  who,  restored  to 
consciousness,  was  being  carried  down  for  removal  in  the 
cab.  Peachey,  looking  and  feeling  like  a  man  whom  pas- 
sion had  brought  within  sight  of  murder,  stopped  his 
ears  and  huddled  himself  against  the  bedside.  The  child 
screamed  in  terror. 

At  length  came  silence.  Peachey  opened  the  door,  and 
listened.  Below,  voices  sounded  in  quiet  conversation. 

"  Who  is  down  there  ? "  he  called. 

"  All  of  us  except  Ada,"  replied  Beatrice.  "  The  police- 
man said  she  needn't  go  unless  she  liked,  but  she  did 
like." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  225 

"  Very  well." 

He  ran  up  to  the  deserted  bedroom,  carefully  gathered 
together  his  child's  day-garments,  and  brought  them 
down.  Then,  as  well  as  he  could,  he  dressed  the  boy. 

"  Is  it  time  to  get  up  ? "  inquired  the  little  three-year- 
old,  astonished  at  all  that  was  happening,  but  soothed  and 
amused  by  the  thought  that  his  father  had  turned  nurse. 
"  It  isn't  light  yet." 

"  You  are  going  somewhere  with  father,  dear.  Some- 
where nice." 

The  dialogue  between  them,  in  sweet  broken  words 
such  as  the  child  had  not  yet  outgrown,  and  the  parent 
did  not  wish  to  abandon  for  common  speech,  went  on 
until  the  dressing  was  completed. 

"  Now,  will  my  boy  show  me  where  his  clothes  are  for 
going  out  ?  His  cap,  and  his  coat- ' 

Oh,  yes,  they  were  up  in  the  nursery ;  boy  would  show 
father — and  laughed  merrily  that  he  knew  something 
father  didn't.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  equipment 
was  completed. 

"Now  wait  for  me  here — only  a  minute.  My  boy 
won't  cry,  if  I  leave  him  for  a  minute  ? " 

"  Cry !  of  course  not ! "  Peachey  descended  to  the 
drawing-room,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood 
facing  his  sisters-in-law. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  away,  and  taking 
the  child  with  me.  Ada  needn't  expect  me  back  to-night 
— nor  ever.  As  long  as  I  live  I  will  never  again  be  under 
the  same  roof  with  her.  You,  Beatrice,  said  it  was  about 
time  I  behaved  like  a  man.  You  were  right.  I've  put  up 
long  enough  with  things  such  as  no  man  ought  to  endure 
for  a  day.  Tell  your  sister  that  she  may  go  on  living 
here,  if  she  chooses,  for  another  six  months,  to  the  end  of 
the  year — not  longer.  She  shall  be  supplied  with  suffi- 
cient money.  After  Christmas  she  may  find  a  home  for 
herself  where  she  likes;  money  will  be  paid  to  her 
through  a  lawyer,  but  from  this  day  I  will  neither  speak 
nor  write  to  her.  You  two  must  make  your  own  arrange- 


226  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

merits ;  you  have  means  enough.  You  know  very  well, 
both  of  you,  why  I  am  taking  this  step ;  think  and  say 
about  me  what  you  like.  I  have  no  time  to  talk,  and  so  I 
.bid  you  good-bye." 

They  did  not  seek  to  detain  him,  but  stood  mute  whilst 
he  left  the  room. 

The  little  boy,  timid  and  impatient,  was  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs.  His  father  enveloped  him  warmly  in  a  shawl, 
and  so  they  went  forth.  It  was  not  long  before  they  met 
with  a  vacant  cab.  Half-an-hour's  drive  brought  them  to 
the  eating-house  where  Peachey  had  had  his  chop  that 
evening,  and  here  he  obtained  a  bedroom  for  the  night. 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  child  slept  peacefully.  The 
father,  seated  at  a  table,  was  engaged  in  writing  to  a 
solicitor. 

At  midnight  he  lay  softly  down  by  the  child's  side,  and 
there,  until  dawn,  listened  to  the  low  breathing  of  his  in- 
nocent little  bedfellow.  Though  he  could  not  sleep,  it 
was  joy,  rather  than  any  painful  excitement,  that  kept 
him  wakeful.  A  great  and  loathsome  burden  had  fallen 
from  him,  and  in  the  same  moment  he  had  rescued  his 
boy  out  of  an  atmosphere  of  hated  impurity.  At  length 
he  could  respect  himself,  and  for  the  first  time  in  four 
long  years  he  looked  to  the  future  with  tranquil  hope. 

Careless  of  the  frank  curiosity  with  which  the  people 
of  the  house  regarded  him,  he  went  down  at  seven  o'clock, 
and  asked  for  a  railway  time-table.  Having  found  a  con- 
venient train  to  Canterbury,  he  ordered  breakfast  for  him- 
self and  the  child  to  be  laid  in  a  private  room.  It  was  a 
merry  meal.  Sunshine  of  midsummer  fell  warm  and 
bright  upon  the  table;  the  street  below  was  so  full  of 
busy  life  that  the  little  boy  must  needs  have  his  breakfast 
by  the  window,  where  he  could  eat  and  look  forth  at  the 
same  time.  No  such  delightful  holiday  had  he  ever  en- 
joyed. Alone  with  father,  and  going  away  by  train  into 
wonderful  new  worlds. 

"  Is  Emma  coming  ? "  he  asked. 

It  was  significant  that  he  did  not  speak  of  his  mother. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  227 

They  drove  to  the  railway  station,  Peachey  no  less  ex- 
cited than  the  child.  From  here  he  despatched  a  telegram 
to  his  partners,  saying  that  he  should  be  absent  for  a  day 
or  two. 

Then  the  train,  struggling  slowly  out  of  London's  wel- 
ter, through  the  newest  outposts  of  gloom  and  grime,  bore 
them,  hearts  companioned  in  love  and  blamelessness,  to 
the  broad  sunny  meadows  and  the  sweet  hop-gardens  of 
Kent. 


"SERVES  her  jolly  well  right,"  said  Beatrice. 

u  A  lot  she'll  care,"  said  Fanny.  "  I  should  think  my- 
self precious  lucky.  She  gets  rid  of  him,  and  of  the  kid 
too,  and  has  as  much  as  she  wants  to  live  on.  It's  better 
than  she  deserves. — Do  you  believe  he's  been  carrying  on 
with  that  girl  ? " 

Miss  French  laughed  contemptuously. 

"Not  he!" 

"  Well,  there's  been  a  jolly  good  row  to-night,  if  we 
never  see  another.  We  shall  all  be  in  the  papers !  "  The 
prospect  had  charms  for  Fanny.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  Live  here  till  Christmas  ? " 

Beatrice  was  quietly  reviewing  the  situation.  She  kept 
silence,  and  her  sister  also  became  meditative.  Suddenly 
Fanny  inquired : 

"  What  sort  of  a  place  is  Brussels  ? " 

"  Brussels  ?  Why  ?  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Not 
much  of  a  place,  I  think  ;  sprouts  come  from  there,  don't 
they  ? " 

"  It's  a  big  town,"  said  the  other,  "  and  a  lively  sort  of 
place,  they  say." 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me,  if  you  know  ?    What  about  it  ? " 

As  usual  when  performing  the  operation  which,  in  her, 
answered  to  thought,  Fanny  shuffled  with  her  hands  on 
her  waist.  At  a  distance  from  Beatrice  she  stood  still,  and 
said: 


228  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Some  one  I  know  is  going  there.  I've  a  good  mind  to 
go  too.  I  want  to  see  abroad." 

Her  sister  asked  several  searching  questions,  but  Fanny 
would  not  make  known  whether  the  friend  was  male  or 
female. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  much  surprised,"  remarked  the  woman 
of  business,  indifferently,  "  if  you  go  and  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  before  long.  That  Mrs.  Damerel  is  up  to  some 
game  writh  you  ;  any  one  could  see  it  with  half  an  eye.  I 
suppose  it  isn't  Lord  that's  going  to  Brussels  ? " 

Fanny  sputtered  her  disdain. 

"If  you  had  any  common  sense,"  pursued  her  sister, 
"  you'd  stick  to  him  ;  but  you  haven't.  Oh  yes,  you  think 
you  can  do  better.  Very  well,  we  shall  see.  If  you  find 
yourself  in  a  hole  one  of  these  days,  don't  expect  me  to 
pull  you  out.  I  wouldn't  give  you  a  penny  to  save  you 
from  the  workhouse." 

"Wait  till  you're  asked.  I  know  where  all  your 
money'll  go  to.  And  that's  into  Crewe's  pocket.  He'll 
fool  you  out  of  all  you  have." 

Beatrice  reddened  wTith  wrath.  But,  unlike  the  other 
members  of  her  family,  she  could  command  her  tongue. 
Fanny  found  it  impossible  to  draw  another  word  from 
her. 

On  returning  from  the  police-station,  haggard  and  faint 
with  excitement,  but  supported  by  the  anticipation  of  fresh 
attacks  upon  her  husband,  Ada  immediately  learnt  what 
had  happened.  For  the  first  moment  she  could  hardly  be- 
lieve it.  She  rushed  upstairs,  and  saw  that  the  child  w^as 
really  gone;  then  a  blind  frenzy  took  hold  upon  her. 
Alarming  and  inexplicable  sounds  drew  her  sisters  from 
below  ;  they  found  her,  armed  with  something  heavy, 
smashing  every  breakable  object  in  her  bedroom — mirrors, 
toilet-ware,  pictures,  chimney-piece  ornaments. 

"  She's  gone  mad  ! "  shrieked  Fanny.     "  She'll  kill  us ! " 

"  That  beast  shall  pay  for  it ! "  yelled  Ada,  with  a  fran- 
tic blow  at  the  dressing-table. 

Wanton  destruction  of  property  revolted  all  Beatrice's 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  229 

instincts.  Courageous  enough,  she  sprang  upon  the  wild 
animal,  and  flung  her  down. 

Now  indeed  the  last  trace  of  veneer  was  gone,  the 
last  rag  of  pseudo-civilization  was  rent  off  these  young 
women;  in  physical  conflict,  vilifying  each  other,  they 
revealed  themselves  as  born — raw  material  which  the  mill 
of  education  is  supposed  to  convert  into  middle-class 
ladyhood.  As  a  result  of  being  held  still  by  superior 
strength  Ada  fell  into  convulsions,  foamed  at  the  mouth, 
her  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets ;  then  she  lay  as  one 
dead. 

"  You've  killed  her,"  cried  the  terrified  Fanny. 

u  No  fear.     Give  me  some  water  to  pitch  over  her." 

With  a  full  jug  from  another  bedroom,  she  drenched 
the  prostrate  figure.  When  Ada  came  round  she  was  pow- 
erless ;  even  her  rancorous  lips  could  utter  only  a  sound  of 
moaning.  The  sisters  stripped  her  on  the  floor,  made  a 
show  of  drying  her  with  towels,  and  tumbled  her  into  bed. 
Then  Beatrice  brewed  a  great  jorum  of  hot  whisky-punch, 
and  after  drinking  freely  to  steady  her  shaken  nerves, 
poured  a-  pint  or  so  down  Mrs.  Peachey's  throat. 

"  There  won't  be  a  funeral  just  yet,"  she  remarked  with 
a  laugh.  "Now  we'll  have  supper;  I  feel  hungry." 

They  went  to  bed  at  something  after  midnight.  The 
servants,  having  stolen  a  bottle  of  spirits  from  the  cup 
board,  which  Beatrice  left  open,  both  got  drunk,  and  slept 
till  morning  upon  the  kitchen-floor. 

On  the  morrow,  Miss  French,  attired  as  a  walking  ad- 
vertisement of  the  South  London  Fashionable  Dress  Sup- 
ply Association,  betook  herself  to  Farringdon  Street  for  an 
interview  with  her  commercial  friend.  Crewe  was  absent, 
but  one  of  three  clerks,  who  occupied  his  largest  room, 
informed  her  that  it  could  not  be  very  long  before  he 
returned,  and  being  so  familiar  a  figure  here,  she  was  per- 
mitted to  wait  in  the  agent's  sanctum.  When  the  door 
closed  upon  her,  the  three  young  men  discussed  her  char- 
acter with  sprightly  freedom.  Beatrice,  the  while,  splen- 
didly indifferent  to  the  remarks  she  could  easily  divine, 


230  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

made  a  rapid  examination  of  loose  papers  lying  on  Crewe's 
desk,  read  several  letters,  opened  several  books,  and  found 
nothing  that  interested  her  until,  on  turning  over  a  slip  of 
paper  with  pencilled  figures  upon  it,  she  discovered  a  hotel- 
bill,  the  heading :  Royal  Hotel,  Falmouth.  It  was  for  a 
day  and  night's  entertainment,  the  debtor  "  Mr.  Crewe," 
the  date  less  than  a  week  gone  by.  This  document  she 
considered  attentively,  her  brows  knitted,  her  eyes  wide. 
But  a  sound  caused  her  to  drop  it  upon  the  desk  again. 
Another  moment,  and  Crewe  entered. 

He  looked  keenly  at  her,  and  less  good-humouredly 
than  of  wont.  These  persons  never  shook  hands, 
and  indeed  dispensed,  as  a  rule,  with  all  forms  of 
civility. 

"  What  are  you  staring  at  ? "  asked  Crewe  bluffly. 

"  What  are  you  staring  at  ? " 

"  Nothing,  that  I  know."  He  hung  up  his  hat,  and  sat 
down.  "  I've  a  note  to  write ;  wait  a  minute." 

The  note  written,  and  given  to  a  clerk,  Crewe  seemed 
to  recover  equanimity.  His  visitor  told  him  all  that  hap- 
pened in  De  Crespigny  Park,  even  to  the  crudest  details, 
and  they  laughed  together  uproariously. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  a  flat,"  Beatrice  then  informed  him. 
"  Just  find  me  something  convenient  and  moderate,  will 
you  ?  A  bachelor's  flat." 

"  What  about  Fanny  ? " 

"  She  has  something  on ;  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
Talks  about  going  to  Brussels — with  a  friend." 

Crewe  looked  astonished. 

"  You  ought  to  see  after  her.  I  know  what  the  end  '11 
be.  Brussels  ?  I've  heard  of  English  girls  going  there, 
but  they  don't  usually  come  back." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I'm  pretty  certain  that  Damerel 
woman  has  a  game  on  hand.  She  doesn't  want  Fanny  to 
marry  her  nephew — if  Lord  is  her  nephew.  She  wants 
his  money,  that's  my  idea." 

"  Mine,  too,"  remarked  the  other  quietly.  "  Look  here, 
old  chap,  it's  your  duty  to  look  after  your  little  damned 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  231 

fool  of  a  sister ;  I  tell  you  that  plainly.  I  shan't  think 
well  of  you  if  you  don't." 

Beatrice  displayed  eagerness  to  defend  herself.  She 
had  done  her  best ;  Fanny  scorned  all  advice,  and  could 
not  be  held  against  her  will. 

"  Has  she  given  up  all  thought  of  Lord  ? " 

"I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  so.  And  it  looks  as  if  he 
was  going  his  own  way,  and  didn't  care  much.  He  never 
writes  to  her  now.  Of  course  it's  that  woman's  doing." 

Ore  we  reflected. 

"I  shall  have  to  look  into  Mrs.  Damerel's  affairs. 
Might  be  worth  while.  Where  is  she  living  ? "  He  made 
a  note  of  the  information.  "  Well,  anything  else  to  tell 
me?" 

Beatrice  spoke  of  business  matters,  then  asked  him  if 
he  had  been  out  of  town  lately.  The  question  sounded 
rather  abrupt,  and  caused  Crewe  to  regard  her  with  an 
expression  she  privately  interpreted. 

u  A  few  short  runs.     Nowhere  particular." 

"  Oh  ?— Not  been  down  into  Cornwall  ? " 

He  lost  his  temper. 

"  What  are  you  after  ?  What  business  is  it  of  yours  ? 
If  you're  going  to  spy  on  me,  I'll  soon  let  you  know  that 
I  won't  stand  that  kind  of  thing." 

"Don't  disturb  yourself,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  cold 
smile.  "I  haven't  been  spying,  and  you  can  go  where 
you  like  for  anything  I  care.  I  guessed  you  had  been 
down  there,  that's  all." 

Crewe  kept  silence,  his  look  betraying  uneasiness  as 
well  as  anger.  Speaking  at  length,  he  fixed  her  with 
keen  eyes. 

"  If  it's  any  satisfaction  to  you,  you're  welcome  to  know 
that  I  have  been  into  Cornwall — and  to  Falmouth." 

Beatrice  merely  nodded,  and  still  he  searched  her 
face. 

"Just  answer  me  a  plain  question,  old  chap.  Come, 
there's  no  nonsense  between  us;  we  know  each  other — 
eh?" 


232  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  know  each  other,"  Miss  French  answered, 
her  lips  puckering  a  little. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  her  f  What  has  she  been 
doing  all  this  time  ? " 

Beatrice  laughed. 

"  I  know  just  as  little  about  her  as  I  care.1' 

"You  care  a  good  deal  more  than  you'll  confess.  I 
wouldn't  be  up  to  women's  tricks,  if  I  were  you." 

She  revolted. 

"  After  all,  I  suppose  I  am  a  woman  ? " 

"Well,  I  suppose  so."  Crewe  grinned  good-naturedly. 
"  But  that  isn't  in  the  terms  of  our  partnership,  you  re- 
member. You  can  be  a  reasonable  fellow  enough,  when 
you  like.  Just  tell  me  the  truth.  What  do  you  know 
about  Nancy  Lord  ? " 

Beatrice  assumed  an  air  of  mystery. 

"  I'll  tell  you  that,  if  you  tell  me  what  it  is  you  want 
of  her.  Is  it  her  money  ? " 

"  Her  money  be  damned ! " 

"It's  herself,  then." 

"  And  what  if  it  is  ?    What  have  you  to  say  to  it  ? " 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  she  muttered  "  Nothing." 

"  Just  bear  that  in  mind,  then.  And  now  that  I've  an- 
swered your  question,  answer  mine.  What  have  you  heard 
about  her  ?  Or  what  have  you  found  out  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  and  again,  but  in  a  mock- 
ing voice  said,  "  Nothing." 

"  You're  telling  me  a  lie." 

"  You're  a  brute  to  say  so ! " 

They  exchanged  fierce  glances,  but  could  not  meet  each 
other's  eyes  steadily.  Crewe,  mastering  his  irritation,  said 
with  a  careless  laugh  : 

"  All  right,  I  believe  you.  Didn't  mean  to  offend  you, 
old  chap." 

"  I  won't  be  called  that ! "  She  was  trembling  with 
stormy  emotions.  "  You  shall  treat  me  decently." 

"  Very  well.     Old  girl,  then." 

"  I'm  a  good  deal  younger  than  you  are.    And  I'm  a 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  233 

good  deal  better  than  you,  in  every  way.  I'm  a  lady,  at 
all  events,  and  you  can't  pretend  to  be  a  gentleman. 
You're  a  rough,  common  fellow — 

"  Holloa  !    Holloa !    Draw  it  mild." 

He  was  startled,  and  in  some  degree  abashed  ;  his  eyes, 
travelling  to  the  door,  indicated  a  fear  that  this  singular 
business-colloquy  might  be  overheard.  But  Beatrice  went 
on,  without  subduing  her  voice,  and,  having  delivered 
herself  of  much  plain  language,  walked  from  the  room, 
leaving  the  door  open  behind  her. 

As  a  rule,  she  returned  from  her  day's  occupations  to 
dinner,  in  De  Crespigiiy  Park,  at  seven  o'clock.  To-day 
her  arrival  at  home  was  considerably  later.  About  three 
o'clock  she  made  a  call  at  the  board  ing-house  where  Mrs. 
Damerel  lived,  but  was  disappointed  in  her  wish  to  see 
that  lady,  who  would  not  be  in  before  the  hour  of  dining. 
She  called  again  at  seven,  and  Mrs.  Damerel  received  her 
very  graciously.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met. 
Beatrice,  in  no  mood  for  polite  grimaces,  at  once  dis- 
closed the  object  of  her  visit ;  she  wanted  to  talk  about 
Fanny ;  did  Mrs.  Damerel  know  anything  of  a  proposed 
journey  to  Brussels  ?  The  lady  professed  utter  ignorance 
of  any  such  intention  on  Fanny's  part.  She  had  not  seen 
Fanny  for  at  least  a  fortnight. 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  She  told  me  she  dined  here  last 
Sunday." 

"That's  very  strange,"  answered  Mrs.  Damerel,  with 
suave  concern.  "  She  certainly  did  not  dine  here." 

"  And  the  Sunday  before  ? " 

"  Your  sister  has  dined  here  only  once,  Miss  French, 
and  that  was  three  months  ago." 

"  Then  I  don't  understand  it.  Haven't  you  been  taking 
her  to  theatres,  and  parties,  and  that  kind  of  thing  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  her  once  to  a  theatre,  and  twice  to  even- 
ing 'at  homes.'  The  last  time  we  were  together  anywhere 
was  at  Mrs.  Dane's,  about  the  middle  of  May.  Since  then 
I  have  seen  her  hardly  at  all.  I'm  very  much  afraid  you 
are  under  some  misconception.  Thinking  your  sister  was 


234  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

engaged  to  marry  my  nephew,  Mr.  Lord,  I  naturally  de- 
sired to  offer  her  a  few  friendly  attentions.  But  it  came 
out,  at  length,  that  she  did  not  regard  the  engagement  as 
serious.  I  was  obliged  to  speak  gravely  to  my  young 
nephew,  and  beg  him  to  consider  his  position.  There  is 
the  second  dinner-bell,  but  I  am  quite  at  your  service,  Miss 
French,  if  you  wish  to  question  me  further." 

Beatrice  was  much  inclined  to  resent  this  tone,  and  to 
use  her  vernacular.  But  it  seemed  only  too  probable  that 
Fanny  had  been  deceiving  her,  and,  as  she  really  feared 
for  the  girl's  safety,  prudence  bade  her  be  civil  with  Mrs. 
Damerel. 

"  Can't  you  help  me  to  find  out  what  Fanny  has  really 
been  doing  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  it's  quite  out  of  my  power.  She  never 
confided  in  me,  and  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  any- 
thing of  her  at  all." 

"  It's  best  to  speak  plainly,"  said  Beatrice,  in  her  busi- 
ness tone.  "  Can't  you  think  of  any  man,  in  the  society 
you  introduced  her  to,  who  may  be  trying  to  lead  her 
astray  ? " 

"  Really,  Miss  French  !  The  society  in  which  I  move 
is  not  what  you  seem  to  suppose.  If  your  sister  is  in  any 
danger  of  that  kind,  you  must  make  your  inquiries  else- 
where— in  an  inferior  rank  of  life." 

Beatrice  no  longer  contained  herself. 

"  Perhaps  I  know  rather  more  than  you  think  about 
your  kind  of  society.  There's  not  much  to  choose  between 
the  men  and  the  women." 

"  Miss  French,  I  believe  you  reside  in  a  part  of  London 
called  Camberwell.  And  I  believe  you  are  engaged  in 
some  kind  of  millinery  business.  This  excuses  you  for  ill- 
manners.  All  the  same,  I  must  beg  you  to  relieve 
me  of  your  presence."  She  rang  the  bell.  "  Good 
evening." 

"I  dare  say  we  shall  see  each  other  again,"  replied 
Beatrice,  with  an  insulting  laugh.  "  I  heard  some  one  say 
to-day  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  find  out  w ho  you  really 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  235 

are.  And  if  any  harm  comes  to  Fanny,  I  shall  take  a 
little  trouble  about  that  inquiry  myself." 

Mrs.  Damerel  changed  colour,  but  no  movement  be- 
trayed anxiety.  In  the  attitude  of  dignified  disdain,  she 
kept  her  eyes  on  a  point  above  Miss  French  s  head,  and 
stood  so  until  the  plebeian  adversary  had  withdrawn. 

Then  she  sat  down,  and  for  a  few  minutes  communed 
with  herself.  In  the  end,  instead  of  going  to  dinner,  she 
rang  her  bell  again.  A  servant  appeared. 

"  Is  Mr.  Mankelow  in  the  dining-room  ? " 

u  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Ask  him  to  be  kind  enough  to  come  here  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

With  little  delay,  Mr.  Mankelow  answered  the  sum- 
mons which  called  him  from  his  soup.  He  wore  evening 
dress ;  his  thin  hair  was  parted  down  the  middle ;  his 
smooth-shaven  and  rather  florid  face  expressed  the  annoy- 
ance of  a  hungry  man  at  so  unseasonable  an  interruption. 

"  Do  forgive  me,"  began  Mrs.  Damerel,  in  a  pathetic 
falsetto.  "  I  have  been  so  upset,  I  felt  obliged  to  seek  ad- 
vice immediately,  and  no  one  seemed  so  likely  to  be  of 
help  to  me  as  you — a  man  of  the  world.  Would  you  be- 
lieve that  a  sister  of  that  silly  little  Miss  French  has  just 
been  here — a  downright  virago — declaring  that  the  girl 
has  been  led  astray,  and  that  I  am  responsible  for  it  ?  Can 
you  imagine  such  impertinence  ?  She  has  fibbed  shock- 
ingly to  the  people  at  home — told  them  she  was  constantly 
here  with  me  in  the  evenings,  when  she  must  have  been — 
who  knows  where.  It  will  teach  me  to  meddle  again  with 
girls  of  that  class." 

Mankelow  stood  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  legs 
apart,  regarding  the  speaker  with  a  comically  puzzled  air. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Damerel," — he  had  a  thick,  military 
sort  of  voice, — "  why  in  the  world  should  this  interpose  be- 
tween us  and  dinner  ?  Afterwards,  we  might — 

"  But  I  am  really  anxious  about  the  silly  little  creature. 
It  would  be  extremely  disagreeable  if  my  name  got  mixed 
up  in  a  scandal  of  any  kind.  You  remember  my  telling 


236  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

you  that  she  didn't  belong  exactly  to  the  working-class. 
She  has  even  a  little  property  of  her  own ;  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she  has  friends  who  might  make  a  disturbance 
if  her — her  vagaries  could  be  in  any  way  connected  with 
me  and  my  circle.  Something  was  mentioned  about  Brus- 
sels. She  had  been  chattering  about  some  one  who  wanted 
to  take  her  to  Brussels 

The  listener  arched  his  eyebrows  more  and  more. 

"  What  can  it  matter  to  you  ? " 

41  To  be  sure,  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  any  one  who 
could  do  such  things — 

"  Why,  of  course  not.  And  even  if  you  had,  I  under- 
stand that  the  girl  is  long  out  of  her  teens " 

"Long  since." 

"  Then  it's  her  own  affair — and  that  of  the  man  who 
cares  to  purchase  such  amusement.  By-the-bye,  it  hap- 
pens rather  oddly  that  I  myself  have  to  run  over  to  Brus- 
sels on  business;  but  I  trust" — he  laughed — "that  my 
years  and  my  character " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mankelow,  absurd!  It's  probably  some 
commercial  traveller,  or  man  of  that  sort,  don't  you 
think  ?  The  one  thing  I  do  hope  is,  that,  if  anything 
like  this  happens,  the  girl  will  somehow  make  it 
clear  to  her  friends  that  I  had  no  knowledge  whatever 
of  what  was  going  on.  But  that  can  hardly  be  hoped,  I 
fear  !— 

Their  eyes  crossed ;  they  stood  for  a  moment  perusing 
vacancy. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  might  be  hoped,"  said  Mankelow,  airily. 
"  She  seemed  to  me  a  rather  reckless  sort  of  young  person. 
It's  highly  probable  she  will  write  letters  which  release 
every  one  but  herself  from  responsibility.  In  fact " — he 
gazed  at  her  with  a  cynical  smile— "my  knowledge  of 
human  nature  disposes  me  to  assure  you  that  she  certainly 
will.  She  might  even,  I  should  say,  write  a  letter  to  you 
— perhaps  a  cheeky  sort  of  letter,  which  would  at  once  set 
your  mind  at  ease." 

"  Oil,  if  you  really  take  that  view — 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  237 

"  I  do  indeed.  Don't  you  think  we  might  dismiss  the 
matter,  and  dine  ? " 

They  did  so. 

Until  noon  of  to-day,  Mrs.  Peachy  had  kept  her  bed, 
lying  amid  the  wreck  wrought  by  last  night's  madness. 
She  then  felt  well  enough  to  rise,  and  after  refreshment 
betook  herself  by  cab  to  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Ducker, 
Blunt  &  Co.,  manufacturers  of  disinfectants,  where  she 
conversed  with  one  of  the  partners,  and  learnt  that  her 
husband  had  telegraphed  his  intention  to  be  absent  for  a 
day  or  two.  Having,  with  the  self-respect  which  dis- 
tinguished her,  related  her  story  from  the  most  calumni- 
ous point  of  view,  she  went  home  again  to  nurse  her  head- 
ache and  quarrel  with  Fanny.  But  Fanny  had  in  the 
meantime  left  home,  and,  unaccountable  fact,  had  taken 
with  her  a  large  tin  box  and  a  dress-basket;  heavily 
packed,  said  the  servants.  Her  direction  to  the  cabman 
was  merely  Westminster  Bridge,  which  conveyed  to  Mrs. 
Peachey  no  sort  of  suggestion. 

When  Beatrice  came  back,  and  learnt  this  event,  she 
went  apart  in  wrathful  gloom.  Ada  could  not  engage  her 
in  a  quarrel.  It  was  a  wretchedly  dull  evening. 

They  talked  next  morning,  and  Beatrice  announced  her 
purpose  of  going  to  live  by  herself  as  soon  as  possible. 
But  she  would  not  quarrel.  Left  alone,  Ada  prepared  to 
visit  certain  of  their  relatives  in  different  parts  of  London, 
to  spread  among  them  the  news  of  her  husband's  infamy. 


VI 

WHEN  Mary  Woodruff  unlocked  the  house-door  and 
entered  the  little  hall,  it  smelt  and  felt  as  though  the  damp 
and  sooty  fogs  of  winter  still  lingered  here,  untouched  by 
the  July  warmth.  She  came  alone,  and  straightway  spent 
several  hours  in  characteristic  activity — airing,  cleaning, 
brightening.  For  a  few  days  there  would  be  no  servant ; 
Mary,  after  her  long  leisure  down  in  Cornwall,  enjoyed 
16 


238  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  prospect  of  doing  all  the  work  herself.  They  had 
reached  London  last  evening,  and  had  slept  at  a  family 
hotel,  where  Nancy  remained  until  the  house  was  in  order 
for  her. 

Unhappily,  their  arrival  timed  with  a  change  of 
weather,  which  brought  clouds  and  rain.  The  glories  of 
an  unshadowed  sky  would  have  little  more  than  availed 
to  support  Nancy's  courage  as  she  passed  the  creaking 
little  gate  and  touched  the  threshold  of  a  home  to  which 
she  returned  only  on  compulsion  ;  gloom  overhead,  and 
puddles  underfoot,  tried  her  spirits  sorely.  She  had  a 
pale  face,  and  thin  cheeks,  and  moved  with  languid  step. 

Her  first  glance  was  at  the  letter-box. 

44  Nothing  ? " 

Mary  shook  her  head.  During  their  absence  letters 
had  been  re-addressed  by  the  post-office,  and  since  the 
notice  of  return  nothing  had  come. 

44  I'm  quite  sure  a  letter  has  been  lost." 

"  Yes,  it  may  have  been.  But  there'll  be  an  answer  to 
your  last  very  soon." 

44 1  don't  think  so.  Most  likely  I  shall  never  hear 
again." 

And  Nancy  sat  by  the  window  of  the  front  room, 
looking,  as  she  had  looked  so  many  a  time,  at  the  lime 
tree  opposite  and  the  house  visible  through  wet  branches. 
A  view  unchanged  since  she  could  remember ;  recalling 
all  her  old  ambitions,  revolts,  pretences,  and  ignorances ; 
recalling  her  father,  who  from  his  grave  still  oppressed 
her  living  heart. 

Somewhere  near  sounded  the  wailing  shout  of  a  dust- 
man. It  was  like  the  voice  of  a  soul  condemned  to  purge 
itself  in  filth. 

u  Mary  !  "  She  rose  up  and  went  to  the  kitchen.  "  I 
can't  live  here  !  It  will  kill  me  if  I  have  to  live  in  this 
dreadful  place.  Why  even  you  have  been  crying ;  I  can 
see  you  have.  If  you  give  way,  think  what  it  must  be  to 
me ! " 

ult's  only  for  a  day  or  two,  dear,"  answered  Mary. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  239 

"  We  shall  feel  at  home  again  very  soon.  Miss  Morgan 
will  come  this  evening,  and  perhaps  your  brother." 

"  I  must  do  something.     Give  me  some  work." 

Mary  could  not  but  regard  this  as  a  healthy  symptom, 
and  she  suggested  tasks  that  called  for  moderate  effort. 
Sick  of  reading — she  had  read  through  a  whole  circulat- 
ing library  in  the  past  six  months — Nancy  bestirred  her- 
self about  the  house  ;  but  she  avoided  her  father's  room. 

Horace  did  not  come  to-day ;  a  note  arrived  from  him, 
saying  that  he  would  call  early  to-morrow  morning.  But 
at  tea-time  Jessica  presented  herself.  She  looked  less 
ghostly  than  half  a  year  ago ;  the  grave  illness  through 
which  she  had  passed  seemed  to  have  been  helpful  to  her 
constitution.  Yet  she  was  noticeably  changed.  In  her 
letters  Nancy  had  remarked  an  excessive  simplicity,  a  sort 
of  childishness,  very  unlike  Jessica's  previous  way  of 
writing ;  and  the  same  peculiarity  now  appeared  in  her 
conversation.  By  turns  she  was  mawkish  and  sprightly, 
tearful  and  giggling.  Her  dress,  formerly  neglected  to 
the  point  of  untidiness,  betrayed  a  new-born  taste  for 
fashionable  equipment ;  she  suddenly  drew  attention  to  it 
in  the  midst  of  serious  talk,  asking  with  a  bashful  smirk 
whether  Nancy  thought  it  suited  her. 

u  I  got  it  at  Miss  French's  place — the  Association,  you 
know.  It's  really  wonderful  how  cheap  things  are  there. 
And  the  very  best  cut,  by  dressmakers  from  Paris." 

Nancy  wondered,  and  felt  that  her  diminishing  regard 
for  Miss  Morgan  had  suffered  a  fresh  blow. 

There  was  much  news  to  receive  and  impart.  In  writ- 
ing from  Falmouth,  Nancy  had  referred  to  the  details  of 
her  own  life  with  studied  ambiguity.  She  regretted  hav- 
ing taken  Jessica  into  her  confidence,  and  avoided  penning 
a  word  which,  if  read  by  any  one  but  her  correspondent, 
would  betray  the  perilous  secret.  Jessica,  after  her  ill- 
ness, was  inclined  to  resent  this  extreme  caution,  which 
irritated  her  curiosity ;  but  in  vain  she  assured  Nancy 
that  there  was  not  the  least  fear  of  her  letters  falling  into 
wrong  hands.  For  weeks  at  a  time  she  heard  nothing, 


24:0  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

and  then  would  come  a  letter,  long  indeed,  but  without  a 
syllable  of  the  information  she  desired.  Near  the  end  of 
May  she  received  a  line  or  two,  u  I  have  been  really  ill, 
but  am  now  much  better.  I  shall  stay  here  only  a  few 
weeks  more.  Don't  be  anxious  ;  I  am  well  cared  for,  and 
the  worst  is  over." 

She  heard  the  interpretation  from  Nancy's  lips,  and 
laughed  and  cried  over  it. 

"What  you  must  have  suffered,  my  poor  dear  1  And 
to  be  separated  from  the  little  darling  !  Oh,  it's  too  cruel ! 
You  are  sure  they  will  be  kind  to  it  ?  " 

"  Mary  has  every  confidence  in  the  woman.  And  I 
like  the  look  of  her ;  I  don't  feel  uneasy.  I  shall  go  there 
very  often,  of  course." 

"  And  when  is  he  coming  back  ?  He  oughtn't  to  have 
kept  away  all  this  time.  How  unkind  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  Nancy  replied,  with  sudden  reserve. 
"  He  is  acting  for  the  best.  You  mustn't  ask  me  about 
that ;  you  shall  know  more  some  day." 

Jessica,  whose  face  made  legible  presentment  of  her 
every  thought,  looked  disappointed  and  peevish. 

"  And  you  are  really  going  in  for  the  examination 
again  ?  "  Nancy  asked. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  am ! "  answered  the  other  perkily ; 
"  but  not  till  summer  of  next  year.  I'm  not  allowed  to 
study  much  yet ;  the  doctor  says  I  might  do  my  brain  a 
serious  injury.  I  read  a  great  deal ;  books  that  rest  the 
mind — poetry  and  fiction  ;  of  course  only  the  very  best 
fiction.  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  begin  teaching  again  ;  but 
I  must  be  very  careful.  Only  an  hour  or  two  a  day  at 
first,  and  perhaps  quite  young  children." 

Evidently  the  girl  felt  a  certain  pride  in  what  she  had 
undergone.  Her  failure  to  matriculate  was  forgotten  in 
the  sense  that  she  offered  a  most  interesting  case  of  break- 
down from  undue  mental  exertion.  The  doctor  had 
declared  his  astonishment  that  she  held  up  until  the  ex- 
amination was  over. 

"  He  simply  wouldn't  believe  me  when  I  told  him  tlio 


IN  THE  YEAR   OF  JUBILEE.  241 

hours  I  worked.  He  said  I  ought  to  be  on  my  trial  for  at- 
tempted suicide ! " 

And  she  laughed  with  extravagant  conceit. 

"You  have  quite  made  friends  with  the  Barmbys," 
said  Nancy,  eyeing  her  curiously. 

"  They  are  very  nice  people.  Of  course  the  girls  quite 
understand  what  a  difference  there  is  between  themselves 
and  me.  I  like  them  because  they  are  so  modest ;  they 
would  never  think  of  contradicting  my  opinion  about 
anything." 

"  And  what  about  the  Prophet  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  quite  understood  him,"  Jessica 
replied,  with  an  obvious  confusion  which  perplexed  her 
friend.  "  He  isn't  at  all  the  kind  of  man  you  thought." 

*'  No  doubt  I  was  wrong,"  Nancy  hastened  to  say.  "  It 
was  prejudice.  And  you  remember  that  I  never  had  any 
fault  to  find  with  his — his  character." 

"  You  disliked  him,"  said  the  other  sharply.  "  And 
you  still  dislike  him.  I'm  sure  you  do." 

So  plainly  did  Jessica  desire  a  confirmation  of  this 
statement,  that  Nancy  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  into 
half  avowing  a  positive  dislike  for  Samuel.  Whereupon 
Jessica  looked  pleased,  and  tossed  her  head  in  a  singular 
way. 

"  I  needn't  remind  you,"  fell  from  Nancy,  after  a  mo- 
ment of  troubled  reflection,  "  how  careful  you  must  be  in 
talking  about  me  to  the  Barmbys." 

"  Oh,  don't  have  the  slightest  fear." 

"  Weren't  you  delirious  in  your  illness  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  was  indeed  !     For  a  long  time." 

"  I  hope  you  said  nothing — 

*'  About  you  ?  Oh,  not  a  word ;  I'm  quite  sure.  I 
talked  all  the  time  about  my  studies.  The  doctor  heard 
me  one  day  repeating  a  long  bit  of  Virgil.  And  I  kept 
calling  for  bits  of  paper  to  work  out  problems  in  Geomet- 
rical Progression.  Just  fancy !  I  don't  think  most  girls 
are  delirious  in  that  way.  If  I  had  said  anything  about 
you  that  sounded  queer,  of  course  mother  would  have  told 


1N  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 


me  afterwards.  Oh,  it  was  quite  an  intellectual  delir- 
ium." 

Had  Jessica,  since  her  illness,  become  an  insufferable 
simpleton  ?  or  —  Nancy  wondered  —  was  it  she  herself  who, 
through  experience  and  sorrows,  was  grown  wiser,  and 
saw  her  friend  in  a  new  light  ?  It  troubled  her  gravely 
that  the  preservation  of  a  secret  more  than  ever  momen- 
tous should  depend  upon  a  person  with  so  little  sense.  The 
girl's  departure  was  a  relief  ;  but  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed upon  silly  talk,  she  had  leisure  to  contemplate  this 
risk,  hitherto  scarce  taken  into  account.  She  spoke  of  it 
with  Mary,  the  one  friend  to  whom  her  heart  went  out  in 
absolute  trust,  from  whom  she  concealed  but  few  of  her 
thoughts,  and  whose  moral  worth,  only  understood  since 
circumstances  compelled  her  reliance  upon  it,  had  set  be- 
fore her  a  new  ideal  of  life.  Mary,  she  wrell  knew,  ab- 
horred the  deceit  they  were  practising,  and  thought  hard 
things  of  the  man  who  made  it  a  necessity  ;  so  it  did  not 
surprise  her  that  the  devoted  woman  showed  no  deep  con- 
cern at  a  new  danger. 

"  It's  more  the  shame  than  anything  else,  that  I  fear 
now,"  said  Nancy.  "  If  I  have  to  support  myself  and  my 
child,  I  shall  do  it.  How,  I  don't  know  ;  but  other  women 
find  a  way,  and  I  should.  If  he  deserts  me,  I  am  not  such 
a  poor  creature  as  to  grieve  on  that  account  ;  I  should  de- 
spise him  too  much  even  to  hate  him.  But  the  shame  of 
it  would  be  terrible.  It's  common,  vulgar  cheating  —  such 
as  you  read  of  in  the  newspapers  —  such  as  people  are  pun- 
ished for.  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way  when  he  was 
here.  Yet  he  felt  it.  He  spoke  of  it  like  that,  but  I 
wouldn't  listen." 

Mary  heard  this  with  interest. 

"  Did  he  wish  you  to  give  it  up  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You 
never  told  me  that." 

"  He  said  he  would  rather  we  did.  But  that  was  when 
he  had  never  thought  of  being  in  want  himself.  After- 
wards—yes, even  then  he  spoke  in  the  same  way;  but 
what  could  we  do  ?  " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  243 

"  Don't  fear  that  he  will  forsake  you,"  said  Mary. 
"You  will  hear  from  him  very  soon.  He  knows  the  right 
and  the  wrong,  and  right  will  be  stronger  with  him  in  the 
end.'1 

"  If  only  I  were  sure  that  he  has  heard  of  his  child's 
birth.  If  he  has,  and  won't  even  write  to  me,  then  he  is 
no  man,  and  it's  better  we  should  never  see  each  other 
again." 

She  knew  the  hours  of  postal  delivery,  and  listened 
with  throbbing  heart  to  the  double  knocks  at  neighbour- 
ing houses.  When  the  last  postman  was  gone  by,  she  sat 
down,  sick  with  disappointment. 

At  bedtime  she  said  to  Mary,  "  My  little  baby  is  asleep ; 
oh,  if  I  could  but  see  it  for  a  moment ! "  And  tears  choked 
her  as  she  turned  away. 

It  was  more  than  two  months  since  she  had  heard  from 
her  husband. 

At  first  Tarrant  wrote  as  frequently  as  he  had  promised. 
She  learnt  speedily  of  his  arrival  at  New  York,  then  that  he 
had  reached  Nassau,  the  capital  of  the  Bahamas,  then  that 
he  was  with  his  friend  Sutherland  on  the  little  island  amid 
the  coral  reefs.  Subsequent  letters,  written  in  buoyant 
spirits,  contained  long  descriptions  of  the  scenery  about 
him,  and  of  the  life  he  led.  He  expressed  a  firm  confi- 
dence in  Sutherland's  enterprises ;  beyond  a  doubt,  there 
was  no  and  of  money  to  be  made  by  an  energetic  man  ;  he 
should  report  most  favourably  to  Mr.  Vawdrey,  whose  co- 
operation would  of  course  be  invaluable.  For  his  own  part, 
whether  he  profited  or  not  from  these  commercial  schemes, 
he  had  not  been  mistaken  in  foreseeing  material  for  jour- 
nalism, even  for  a  book.  Yes,  he  should  certainly  write  a 
book  on  the  Bahamas,  if  only  to  expose  the  monstrous 
system  of  misgoveriiment  which  accounted  for  the  sterility 
into  which  these  islands  had  fallen.  The  climate,  in  winter 
at  all  events,  was  superb.  Sutherland  and  he  lay  about 
in  delicious  sunshine,  under  a  marvellous  sky,  smoking 
excellent  cigars,  and  talking  over  old  Oxford  days.  He 
quoted  Tennyson  :  "  Larger  constellations  burning,"  &c. 


2 ±4  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

At  the  end  of  December,  when  Nancy,  according-  to 
their  agreement,  began  to  hope  for  his  return,  a  letter  in  a 
very  different  tone  burdened  her  with  dismal  doubts. 
Tarrant  had  quarrelled  with  his  friend.  He  had  discovered 
that  Sutherland  was  little  better  than  a  swindler.  "  I  see 
that  the  fellow's  professed  energy  was  all  sham.  He  is  the 
laziest  scamp  imaginable ;  lazier  even  than  his  boozing  old 
father.  He  schemes  only  to  get  money  out  of  people ;  and 
his  disappointment  on  finding  that  I  have  no  money  to 
lose,  has  shown  itself  at  length  in  very  gross  forms.  I 
find  he  is  a  gambler ;  there  has  just  been  a  tremendous 
row  between  him  and  an  American,  whom  he  is  said  to 
have  cheated  at  cards.  Last  year  he  was  for  several  weeks 
in  Mexico  City,  a  place  notorious  for  gambling,  and  there 
lost  a  large  sum  of  money  that  didn't  belong  to  him."  The 
upshot  was  that  he  could  no  longer  advise  Mr.  Vawdrey 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  Sutherland.  But  he  must 
not  leave  the  Bahamas  yet ;  that  would  be  most  unwise, 
as  he  was  daily  gathering  most  valuable  information. 
Vawdrey  might  be  induced  to  lend  him  a  hundred  pounds 
or  so.  But  he  would  write  again  very  soon. 

It  was  the  close  of  January  when  he  dated  his  next 
letter.  Vawdrey  had  sent  him  fifty  pounds;  this,  how- 
ever, was  to  include  the  cost  of  his  return  to  England. 
"  See,  then,  what  I  have  decided.  I  shall  make  a  hurried 
tour  through  the  West  Indian  Islands,  then  cross  to  the 
States,  and  travel  by  land  to  New  York  or  Boston,  seeing 
all  I  can  afford  to  on  the  way.  If  I  have  to  come  home 
as  a  steerage  passenger,  never  mind;  that,  too,  will  be 
valuable  experience."  There  followed  many  affectionate 
phrases,  but  Nancy's  heart  remained  cold. 

He  wrote  next  from  Washington,  after  six  weeks' 
silence.  Difficulties  of  which  he  would  speak  at  length  in 
another  letter  had  caused  him  to  postpone  answering  the 
two  letters  he  had  received.  Nancy  must  never  lose  faith 
in  him ;  his  love  was  unshaken ;  before  the  birth  of  her 
child  he  would  assuredly  be  back  in  England.  Let  her 
address  to  New  York.  He  was  well,  but  could  not  pretend 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  245 

to  be  very  cheerful.  However,  courage !  He  had  plans 
and  hopes,  of  which  she  should  soon  hear. 

After  that,  Nancy  knew  nothing  of  him,  save  that  he 
was  living  in  New  York.  He  wrote  two  or  three  times, 
but  briefly,  always  promising  details  in  the  next  epistle. 
Then  he  ceased  to  correspond.  Not  even  the  announce- 
ment of  the  child's  birth  elicited  a  word  from  him.  One 
subsequent  letter  had  Nancy  despatched  ;  this  unanswered, 
she  would  write  no  more. 

She  was  herself  surprised  at  the  calmness  with  which 
she  faced  so  dreadful  a  possibility  as  desertion  by  the  man 
she  had  loved  and  married,  the  father  of  her  baby.  It 
meant,  perhaps,  that  she  could  not  believe  such  fate  had 
really  befallen  her.  Even  in  Tarrant's  last  short  letter 
sounded  a  note  of  kindness,  of  truthfulness,  incompatible, 
it  seemed  to  her,  with  base  cruelty.  u  I  dreamt  of  you  last 
night,  dearest,  and  woke  up  with  a  heart  that  ached  for 
your  suffering."  How  could  a  man  pen  those  words,  and 
be  meditating  dastardly  behaviour  to  the  woman  he  ad- 
dressed ?  Was  he  ill,  then  ?  or  had  fatal  accident  befallen 
him  ?  She  feared  such  explanation  only  in  her  weakest 
moments.  If,  long  ago,  he  could  keep  silence  for  six 
weeks  at  a  time,  why  not  now  for  months  ?  As  for  the 
news  she  had  sent  him — does  a  man  think  it  important 
that  a  little  child  has  been  born  into  the  world  ?  Likely 
enough  that  again  he  merely  "  postponed "  writing.  Of 
course  he  no  longer  loved  her,  say  what  he  might ;  at  most 
he  thought  of  her  with  a  feeling  of  compassion — not  strong 
enough  to  overcome  his  dislike  of  exertion.  He  would 
come  back — when  it  pleased  him. 

Nancy  would  not  sully  her  mind  by  thinking  that  he 
might  only  return  when  her  position  made  it  worth  his 
while.  He  was  not  a  man  of  that  stamp.  Simply,  he  had 
ceased  to  care  for  her ;  and  having  no  means  of  his  own, 
whilst  she  was  abundantly  provided,  he  yielded  to  the 
temptation  to  hold  aloof  from  a  woman  whose  claim  upon 
him  grew  burdensome.  Her  thoughts  admitted  no  worse 
accusation  than  this.  Did  any  grave  ill  befall  her ;  if,  for 


N  THE    YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 


instance,  the  fact  of  her  marriage  became  known,  and  she 
were  left  helpless  ;  her  letter  to  New  York  would  not  be 
disregarded.  To  reflect  thus  signified  a  mental  balance 
rare  in  women,  and  remarkable  in  one  situated  as  Nancy 
was.  She  talked  with  her  companion  far  less  consistently, 
for  talk  served  to  relieve  the  oppression  of  her  heart  and 
mind. 

When,  next  morning,  Horace  entered  the  sitting-room, 
brother  and  sister  viewed  each  other  with  surprise.  Nei- 
ther was  prepared  for  the  outward  change  wrought  in  both 
by  the  past  half-year.  Nancy  looked  what  she  in  truth 
had  become,  a  matronly  young  woman,  in  uncertain 
health,  and  possessed  by  a  view  of  life  too  grave  for  her 
years  ;  Horace,  no  longer  a  mere  lad,  exhibited  in  sunken 
cheeks  and  eyes  bright  with  an  unhappy  recklessness,  the 
acquisition  of  experience  which  corrupts  before  it  can  ma- 
ture. Moving  to  offer  her  lips,  Nancy  was  checked  by  the 
young  man's  exclamation. 

"  What  on  earth  has  been  the  matter  with  you  ?  I 
never  saw  any  one  so  altered." 

His  voice,  with  its  deepened  note,  and  the  modification 
of  his  very  accent,  due  to  novel  circumstances,  checked 
the  hearer's  affectionate  impulse.  If  not  unfeeling,  the 
utterance  had  nothing  fraternal.  Deeply  pained,  and  no 
less  alarmed  by  this  warning  of  the  curiosity  her  appear- 
ance would  excite  in  all  wrho  knew  her,  Nancy  made  a  fal- 
tering reply. 

"  Why  should  you  seem  astonished  ?  You  know  very 
well  I  have  had  an  illness." 

"  But  what  sort  of  illness  ?  What  caused  it  ?  You  used 
always  to  be  well  enough." 

"  You  had  better  go  and  talk  to  my  medical  attendant," 
said  Nancy,  in  a  cold,  offended  voice. 

Horace  resumed  with  irritability. 

"  Isn't  it  natural  for  me  to  ask  such  questions  ?  You're 
not  a  bit  like  yourself.  And  what  did  you  mean  by  telling 
me  you  were  coming  back  at  once,  when  I  wanted  to  join. 
you  at  Falmouth  ?  " 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  meant  to.     But  after  all,  I  had  to  stay  longer." 

u  Oh  well,  it's  nothing  to  me." 

They  had  not  even  shaken  hands,  and  now  felt  no  de- 
sire to  correct  the  omission,  which  was  at  first  involuntary. 
Horace  seemed  to  have  lost  all  the  amiability  of  his  nature ; 
he  looked  about  him  with  restless,  excited  eyes. 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ? "  asked  his  sister,  head  erect. 

"  No  hurry  that  I  know  of. — You  haven't  heard  what's 
been  going  on  ? " 

"  Where  ? " 

"Of  course  it  won't  interest  you.  There's  something 
about  you  I  can't  understand.  Is  it  father's  will  that  has 
spoilt  your  temper,  and  made  you  behave  so  strangely  ? " 

"It  is  not  my  temper  that's  spoilt.  And  as  for  behav- 
ing strangely —  She  made  an  effort  to  command  her- 
self. "Sit  down,  Horace,  and  let  me  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  you.  Why  we  should  be  unfriendly,  I  really 
can't  imagine.  I  have  suffered  from  ill  health,  that  is  all. 
I'm  sorry  I  behaved  in  that  way  when  you  talked  of  com- 
ing to  Falmouth ;  it  wasn't  meant  as  you  seem  to  think. 
Tell  me  what  you  have  to  tell." 

He  could  not  take  a  reposeful  attitude,  but,  after  strug- 
gling with  some  reluctance,  began  to  explain  the  agitation 
that  beset  him. 

"  Mrs.  Damerel  has  done  something  I  didn't  think  any 
woman  would  be  capable  of.  For  months  she  has  been 
trying  to  ruin  Fanny,  and  now  it  has  come— she  has  suc- 
ceeded. She  made  no  secret  of  wanting  to  break  things 
off  between  her  and  me,  but  I  never  thought  her  plotting 
could  go  as  far  as  this.  Fanny  has  run  away — gone  to  the 
Continent  with  a  man  Mrs.  Damerel  introduced  to  her." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  married,"  said  Nancy,  with  singular 
impulsiveness. 

"  Of  course  they're  not.  It's  a  fellow  I  knew  to  be  a 
scoundrel  the  first  time  I  set  eyes  on  him.  I  warned 
Fanny  against  him,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Damerel  that  I  should 
hold  her  responsible  if  any  harm  came  of  the  acquaintance 
she  was  encouraging  between  him  and  Fanny.  She  did 


248  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

encourage  it,  though  she  pretended  not  to.  Her  aim  was 
to  separate  me  and  Fanny — she  didn't  care  how." 

He  spoke  in  a  high,  vehement  note ;  his  cheeks  flushed 
violently,  his  clenched  fist  quivered  at  his  side. 

"  How  do  you  know  where  she  is  gone  ? "  Nancy  asked. 

"  She  as  good  as  told  her  sister  that  she  was  going  to 
Brussels  with  some  one.  Then  one  day  she  disappeared, 
with  her  luggage.  And  that  fellow — Mankelow  's  his 
name — has  gone  too.  He  lived  in  the  same  boarding- 
house  with  Mrs.  Damerel." 

"  That  is  all  the  evidence  you  have  ? " 

"  Quite  enough,"  he  replied  bitterly. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  so  to  me.  But  suppose  you're  right, 
what  proof  have  you  that  Mrs.  Damerel  had  anything  to 
do  with  it  ?  If  she  is  our  mother's  sister — and  you  say 
there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it — I  won't  believe  that  she  could 
carry  out  such  a  hateful  plot  as  this." 

"  What  does  it  matter  who  she  is  ?  I  would  swear  fifty 
times  that  she  has  done  it.  You  know  very  well,  when 
you  saw  her,  you  disliked  her  at  once.  You  were  right  in 
that,  and  I  was  wrong." 

"  I  can't  be  sure.  Perhaps  it  was  she  that  disliked  me, 
more  than  I  did  her.  For  one  thing,  I  don't  believe  that 
people  make  such  plots.  And  what  plotting  was  needed  ? 
Couldn't  any  one  have  told  you  what  a  girl  like  Fanny 
French  would  do  if  she  lost  her  head  among  people  of  a 
higher  class  ? " 

"Then  Mrs.  Damerel  must  have  foreseen  it.  That's 
just  what  I  say.  She  pretended  to  be  a  friend  to  the  girl, 
on  purpose  to  ruin  her." 

"  Have  you  accused  her  of  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have."  His  eyes  flashed.  Nancy  marvelled  at 
this  fire,  drawn  from  a  gentle  nature  by  what  seemed  to  her 
so  inadequate,  so  contemptible  a  cause.  "  Of  course  she  de- 
nied it,  and  got  angry  with  me ;  but  any  one  could  see  she 
was  glad  of  what  had  happened.  There's  an  end  between 
us,  at  all  events.  I  shall  never  go  to  see  her  again  ;  she's 
a  woman  who  thinks  of  nothing  but  money  and  fashion.  I 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

dislike  her  friends,  every  one  of  them  I've  met.  I  told  her 
that  what  she  had  done  ought  to  be  a  punishable  crime." 

Nancy  reflected,  then  said  quietly : 

"  Whether  you  are  right  or  wrong,  I  don't  think  you 
would  have  got  any  good  from  her.  But  will  you  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  do  ?  I  told  you  that  I  thought  bor- 
rowing money  only  to  live  on  it  in  idleness  was  very 
foolish." 

Her  brother  stiffened  his  neck. 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  judge  for  myself." 

"  But  have  you  judged  for  yourself  ?  Wasn't  it  by 
Mrs.  Damerel's  advice  that  you  gave  up  business  ? " 

"  Partly.     But  I  should  have  done  it  in  any  case." 

"  Have  you  any  plans  ? " 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered.  "  You  can't  expect  a 
man  to  have  plans  whose  life  has  been  thoroughly  upset." 

Nancy,  reminded  of  his  youthfulness  by  the  tone  in 
which  he  called  himself  a  "  man,"  experienced  a  revival  of 
natural  feeling.  Though  revolting  against  the  suggestion 
that  a  woman  akin  to  them  had  been  guilty  of  what  her 
brother  believed,  she  was  glad  to  think  that  Fanny  French 
had  relinquished  all  legitimate  claim  upon  him,  and  that 
his  connection  with  "smart"  society  had  come  to  an  end. 
Obvious  enough  were  the  perils  of  his  situation,  and  she, 
as  elder  sister,  recognised  a  duty  towards  him  ;  she  softened 
her  voice,  and  endeavoured  to  re-establish  the  confidence 
of  old  time.  Impossible  at  once,  though  with  resolution  she 
might  ultimately  succeed.  Horace,  at  present,  was  a  mere 
compound  of  agitated  and  inflamed  senses.  The  life  he 
had  been  leading  appeared  in  a  vicious  development  of 
his  previously  harmless  conceit  and  egoism.  All  his 
characteristics  had  turned  out,  as  it  were,  the  seamy  side  ; 
and  Nancy  with  difficulty  preserved  her  patience  as  he 
showed  point  after  point  of  perverted  disposition.  The  re- 
sult of  their  talk  was  a  careless  promise  from  Horace 
that  he  would  come  to  Grove  Lane  not  seldomer  than  once 
a  week. 

He  stayed  only  an  hour,  resisting  Nancy's  endeavour 


250  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

to  detain  him  at  least  for  the  mid-day  meal.  To  Mary  he 
spoke  formally,  awkwardly,  as  though  unable  to  accept 
her  position  in  the  house,  and  then  made  his  escape  like 
one  driven  by  an  evil  spirit. 


YII 

WITH  the  clearing  of  the  sky,  Nancy's  spirit  grew 
lighter.  She  went  about  London,  and  enjoyed  it  after  her 
long  seclusion  in  the  little  Cornish  town  ;  enjoyed,  too, 
her  release  from  manifold  restraints  and  perils.  Her  men- 
tal suffering  had  made  the  physical  harder  to  bear ;  she 
was  now  recovering  health  of  mind  and  body,  and  found 
with  surprise  that  life  had  a  new  savour,  independent  of 
the  timorous  joy  born  with  her  child.  Strangely  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  she  grew  conscious  of  a  personal  freedom 
not  unlike  what  she  had  vainly  desired  in  the  days  of 
petulant  girlhood ;  the  sense  came  only  at  moments,  but 
was  real  and  precious ;  under  its  influence  she  forgot 
everything  abnormal  in  her  situation,  and — though  with- 
out recognising  this  significance — knew  the  exultation  of 
a  woman  who  has  justified  her  being. 

A  day  or  two  of  roaming  at  large  gave  her  an  appetite 
for  activity.  Satisfied  that  her  child  was  safe  and  well 
cared  for,  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  life  of  the  world, 
and  wished  to  take  some  part  in  it — not  the  part  she  had 
been  wont  to  picture  for  herself  before  reality  supplanted 
dreams.  Horace's  example  on  the  one  hand,  and  that  of 
Jessica  Morgan  on  the  other,  helped  her  to  contemn  mere 
social  excitement  and  the  idle  vanity  which  formerly  she 
styled  pursuit  of  culture.  Must  there  not  be  discoverable, 
in  the  world  to  which  she  had,  or  could  obtain,  access, 
some  honest,  strenuous  occupation,  which  would  hold  in 
check  her  unprofitable  thoughts  and  soothe  her  self- 
respect  ? 

That  her  fraud,  up  to  and  beyond  the  crucial  point,  had 
escaped  detection,  must  be  held  so  wonderful,  that  she  felt 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  251 

justified  in  an  assurance  of  impunity.  The  narrowest 
escape  of  which  she  was  aware  had  befallen  only  a  few 
weeks  ago.  On  the  sixth  day  after  the  birth  of  the  child, 
there  was  brought  to  her  lodgings  at  Falmouth  a  note  ad- 
dressed to  "  Miss  Lord."  Letters  bearing  this  address  had 
arrived  frequently,  and  by  the  people  of  the  house  were 
supposed  to  be  for  Mary  Woodruff,  who  went  by  the  name 
of  kk  Miss  Lord,"  Nancy  having  disguised  herself  as  "  Mrs. 
Woodruff ; "  but  they  had  always  come  by  post,  and  the 
present  missive  must  be  from  some  acquaintance  actually 
iii  the  town.  Nancy  could  not  remember  the  handwriting. 
Breaking  open  the  envelope  as  she  lay  in  bed,  she  saw 
with  alarm  the  signature  "  Luckworth  Crewe."  He  was 
at  Falmouth  on  business,  Crewe  wrote,  and,  before  leav- 
ing London,  he  had  ventured  to  ask  Miss  Lord's  address 
from  her  brother,  whom  he  casually  met  somewhere. 
Would  Nancy  allow  him  to  see  her,  were  it  but  for  a 
minute  or  two  ?  Earnestly  he  besought  this  favour.  He 
desired  nothing  more  than  to  see  Miss  Lord,  and  to  speak 
with  her  in  the  way  of  an  ordinary  acquaintance.  After 
all  this  time,  she  had,  he  felt  sure,  forgiven  his  behaviour 
at  their  last  meeting.  Only  five  minutes  of  conversa- 
tion  

All  seemed  lost.  Nancy  was  silent  in  despair.  But 
Mary  faced  the  perilous  juncture,  and,  to  all  appearances, 
averted  catastrophe.  She  dressed  herself,  and  went  straight 
to  the  hotel  where  Crewe  had  put  up,  and  where  he 
awaited  an  answer.  Having  made  known  who  she  was, 
she  delivered  a  verbal  message  :  Miss  Lord  was  not  well 
enough  to  see  any  one  to-day,  and,  in  any  case,  she  could 
not  have  received  Mr.  Crewe ;  she  begged  him  to  pardon 
her;  before  long,  they  might  perhaps  meet  in  London, 
but,  for  her  own  part,  she  wished  Mr.  Crewe  would  learn 
to  regard  her  as  a  stranger.  Of  course  there  followed  a 
dialogue ;  and  Mary,  seeming  to  speak  with  all  freedom, 
convinced  Crewe  that  his  attempt  to  gain  an  interview 
was  quite  hopeless.  She  gave  him  much  information  con- 
cerning her  mistress — none  of  it  false,  but  all  misleading 


252  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

— and  in  the  end  had  to  resist  an  offer  of  gold  coins, 
pressed  upon  her  as  a  bribe  for  her  good  word  with  Nancy. 

The  question  was — had  Crewe  been  content  to  leave 
Falmouth  without  making  inquiries  of  other  people  ?  To 
a  man  of  his  experience,  nothing  was  easier  than  such  in- 
vestigation. But,  with  other  grounds  of  anxiety,  this  had 
ceased  to  disturb  Nancy's  mind.  Practically,  she  lived  as 
though  all  danger  were  at  an  end.  The  task  immediately 
before  her  seemed  very  simple ;  she  had  only  to  resume 
the  old  habits,  and  guard  against  thoughtless  self -betrayal 
in  her  everyday  talk.  The  chance  that  any  one  would 
discover  her  habit  of  visiting  a  certain  house  at  the  dis- 
tance of  several  miles  from  Camberwell,  was  too  slight  for 
consideration. 

She  wrote  to  Mr.  Barmby,  senior,  informing  him  of  her 
return,  in  improved  health,  to  Grove  Lane,  and  thanking 
him  once  more  for  his  allowing  her  to  make  so  long  a 
stay  in  Cornwall.  If  he  wished  to  see  her,  she  would  be 
at  home  at  any  time  convenient  to  him.  In  a  few  days 
the  old  gentleman  called,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  dis- 
coursed well-meaning  commonplace.  He  was  sorry  to 
observe  that  she  looked  a  trifle  pale ;  in  the  autumn  she 
must  go  away  again,  and  to  a  more  bracing  locality — he 
would  suggest  Broadstairs,  which  had  always  exercised 
the  most  beneficial  effect  upon  his  own  health.  Above  all, 
he  begged  her  to  refrain  from  excessive  study,  most  dele- 
terious to  a  female  constitution.  Then  he  asked  questions 
about  Horace,  and  agreed  with  Nancy  that  the  young  man 
ought  to  decide  upon  some  new  pursuit,  if  he  had  defi- 
nitely abandoned  the  old ;  lack  of  steady  occupation  was 
most  deleterious  at  his  age.  In  short,  Mr.  Barmby  rather 
apologised  for  his  guardianship  than  sought  to  make  as- 
sertion of  it ;  and  Nancy,  by  a  few  feminine  devices,  won 
a  better  opinion  than  she  had  hitherto  enjoyed.  On  the 
day  following,  Samuel  Barmby  and  his  sisters  waited  upon 
Miss  Lord ;  all  three  were  surprisingly  solemn,  and  Samuel 
talked  for  the  most  part  of  a  u  paragraph  "  he  had  recently 
read,  which  stated  that  the  smoke  of  London,  if  properly 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  253 

utilised,  would  be  worth  a  vast  sum  of  money.  "The 
English  are  a  wasteful  people,"  was  his  conclusion ;  to 
which  Nancy  assented  with  a  face  as  grave  as  his 
own. 

Not  a  little  to  her  astonishment,  the  next  day  brought 
her  a  long  letter  in  Samuel's  fair  commercial  hand.  It 
began  by  assuring  her  that  the  writer  had  no  intention 
whatever  of  troubling  her  with  the  renewal  of  a  suit  so 
firmly  rejected  on  more  than  one  occasion ;  he  wished 
only  to  take  this  opportunity  of  her  return  from  a  long 
absence  to  express  the  abiding  nature  of  his  devotion, 
which  years  hence  would  be  unbroken  as  to-day.  He 
would  never  distress  her  by  unwelcome  demonstrations ; 
possibly  she  might  never  again  hear  from  his  lips  what  he 
now  committed  to  paper.  Enough  for  him,  Samuel,  to 
cherish  a  love  which  could  not  but  exalt  and  purify  him, 
which  was  indeed,  "  in  the  words  of  Shakespeare,  '  a  liberal 
education.' "  In  recompense  of  his  self-command,  he  only 
besought  that  Miss  Lord  would  allow  him,  from  time  to 
time,  to  look  upon  her  face,  and  to  converse  with  her  of 
intellectual  subjects.  "  A  paper,"  he  added,  "  which  I  read 
last  week  at  our  Society  is  now  being  printed — solely  at  the 
request  of  friends.  The  subject  is  one  that  may  interest 
you,  '  The  Influence  of  Culture  on  Morality.'  I  beg  that 
you  will  accept  the  copy  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  send- 
ding  you,  and  that,  at  some  future  date,  you  will  honour 
me  with  your  remarks  thereon." 

Which  epistle  Nancy  cruelly  read  aloud  to  Mary,  with 
a  sprightliness  and  sarcastic  humour  not  excelled  by  her 
criticisms  of  "  the  Prophet "  in  days  gone  by.  Mary  did 
not  quite  understand,  but  she  saw  in  this  behaviour  a 
proof  of  the  wonderful  courage  with  which  Nancy  faced 
her  troubles. 

A  week  had  passed,  and  no  news  from  America. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Nancy.    "  Really  and  truly,  I  don't 
care.     Yesterday  I  never  once  thought  of  it — never  once 
looked  for  the  postman.    The  worst  is  over  now,  and  he 
may  write  or  not,  as  he  likes." 
17 


254  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Mary  felt  sure  there  would  be  an  explanation  of  such 
strange  silence. 

"  Only  illness  or  death  would  explain  it  so  as  to  make 
me  forgive  him.  But  he  isn't  ill.  He  is  alive,  and  enjoy- 
ing himself." 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice.  She  seemed  to 
have  outlived  all  sorrows  and  anxieties  relative  to  her  hus- 
band. 

Mary  suggested  that  it  was  always  possible  to  call 
at  Mr.  Vawdrey's  house  and  make  inquiries  of  Mrs. 
Baker. 

"  No,  I  won't  do  that.  Other  women  would  do  it,  but  I 
won't.  So  long  as  I  mayn't  tell  the  truth,  I  should  only 
set  them  talking  about  me ;  you  know  how.  I  see  the 
use,  now,  of  having  a  good  deal  of  pride.  I'm  only  sorry 
for  those  letters  I  wrote  when  I  wasn't  in  my  senses.  If 
he  writes  now,  I  shall  not  answer.  He  shall  know  that  I 
am  as  independent  as  he  is.  What  a  blessed  thing  it  is 
for  a  woman  to  have  money  of  her  own !  It's  because 
most  women  haven't,  that  they're  such  poor,  wretched 
slaves." 

"  If  he  knew  you  were  in  want,"  said  her  companion, 
"  he  would  never  have  behaved  like  this." 

"  Who  can  say  ? — No,  I  won't  pretend  to  think  worse  of 
him  than  I  do.  You're  quite  right.  He  wouldn't  leave 
his  wife  to  starve.  It's  certain  that  he  hears  about  me 
from  some  one.  If  I  were  found  out,  and  lost  everything, 
some  one  would  let  him  know.  But  I  wouldn't  accept 
support  from  him,  now.  He  might  provide  for  his  child, 
but  he  shall  never  provide  for  me,  come  what  may — 
never ! " 

It  was  in  the  evening,  after  dinner.  Nancy  had  a 
newspaper,  and  was  reading  the  advertisements  that  offered 
miscellaneous  employment. 

"  What  do  you  think  this  can  be  ? "  she  asked,  looking 
up  after  a  long  silence.  "  '  To  ladies  with  leisure.  Ladies 
desiring  to  add  to  their  income  by  easy  and  pleasant  work 
should  write ' " — &c.  &c. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  255 

"  I've  no  faith  in  those  kind  of  advertisements,"  said 
Mary. 

"  No ;  of  course  it's  rubbish.  There's  no  easy  and  pleas- 
ant way  of  earning  money ;  only  silly  people  expect  it. 
And  I  don't  want  anything-  easy  or  pleasant.  I  want  hon- 
est hard  work.  Not  work  with  my  hands — I'm  not  suited 
for  that,  but  real  work,  such  as  lots  of  educated  girls  are 
doing.  I'm  quite  willing  to  pay  for  learning  it;  most 
likely  I  shall  have  to.  Who  could  I  write  to  for  ad- 
vice ? " 

They  were  sitting  upstairs,  and  so  did  not  hear  a  visit- 
or's knock  that  sounded  at  the  front  door.  The  servant 
came  and  announced  that  Miss  French  wished  to  see  Miss 
Lord. 

"  Miss  French  ?     Is  it  the  younger  Miss  French  ? " 

The  girl  could  not  say;  she  had  repeated  the  name 
given  to  her.  Nancy  spoke  to  her  friend  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  may  be  Fanny.  I  don't  think  Beatrice  would  call, 
unless  it's  to  say  something  about  her  sister.  She  had  bet- 
ter come  up  here,  I  suppose  ? " 

Mary  retired,  and  in  a  few  moments  there  entered,  not 
Fanny,  but  Beatrice.  She  was  civilly,  not  cordially, 
welcomed.  Her  eye,  as  she  spoke  the  words  natural  at 
such  a  meeting,  dwelt  with  singular  persistency  on  Nan- 
cy's face. 

"  You  are  quite  well  again  ? " 

"  Quite,  thank  you." 

"  It  has  been  a  troublesome  illness,  I'm  afraid." 

Nancy  hesitated,  detecting  a  peculiarity  of  look  and 
tone  which  caused  her  uneasiness. 

"  I  had  a  sort  of  low  fever — was  altogether  out  of  sorts 
— '  below  par,'  the  doctor  said.  Are  you  all  well  ? " 

Settling  herself  comfortably,  as  if  for  a  long  chat,  Be- 
atrice sketched  with  some  humour  the  course  of  recent 
events  in  De  Crespigny  Park. 

"I'm  out  of  it  all,  thank  goodness.     I  prefer  a  quiet 
life.    Then  there's  Fanny.    You  know  all  about  her,  I 
dare  say  ? " 
• 


256  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  Nancy  replied  distantly. 
"But  your  brother  does.     Hasn't  he  been  to  see  you 
yet?" 

Nancy  was  in  no  mood  to  submit  to  examination. 

"Whatever  I  may  have  heard,  I  know  nothing 
about  Fanny's  affairs,  and,  really,  they  don't  concern 
me." 

"I  should  have  thought  they  might,"  rejoined  the 
other,  smiling  absently.  "She  has  run  away  from  her 
friends  " — a  pause — "  and  is  living  somewhere  rather  mys- 
teriously"— another  pause— "and  I  think  it  more  than 
likely  that  she's  married" 

The  listener  preserved  a  face  of  indifference,  though 
the  lines  were  decidedly  tense. 

"  Doesn't  that  interest  you  ? "  asked  Beatrice,  in  the 
most  genial  tone. 

"  If  it's  true,"  was  the  blunt  reply. 

"  You  mean,  you  are  glad  if  she  has  married  somebody 
else  and  not  your  brother  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad  of  that." 

Beatrice  mused,  with  wrinkles  at  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
Then,  fixing  Nancy  with  a  very  keen  look,  she  said 
quietly : 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  she's  married.  But  if  she  isn't,  no 
doubt  she  ought  to  be." 

On  Nancy's  part  there  was  a  nervous  movement,  but 
she  said  nothing.  Her  face  grew  rigid. 

"  I  have  an  idea  who  the  man  is,"  Miss  French  pur- 
sued; "but  I  can't  be  quite  certain.  One  has  heard  of 
similar  cases.  Even  you  have,  no  doubt  ? " 

"I  don't  care  to  talk  about  it,"  fell  mechanically  from 
Nancy's  lips,  which  had  lost  their  colour. 

"  But  I've  come  just  for  that  purpose." 

The  eyes  of  mocking  scrutiny  would  not  be  resisted. 
They  drew  a  gaze  from  Nancy,  and  then  a  haughty  excla- 
mation. 

"I  don't  understand  you.  Please  say  whatever  you 
have  to  say  in  plain  words." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  257 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  You  were  always  too  ready 
at  taking  offence.  I  mean  it  in  quite  a  friendly  way ;  you 
can  trust  me;  I'm  not  one  of  the  women  that  chatter. 
Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  sympathise  a  little  with 
Fanny  ?  She's  gone  to  Brussels,  or  somewhere  about  there. 
But  she  might  have  gone  down  into  Cornwall — to  a  place 
like  Falmouth.  It  was  quite  far  enough  off — don't  you 
think?" 

Nancy  was  stricken  mute,  and  her  countenance  would 
no  longer  disguise  what  she  suffered. 

"  No  need  to  upset  yourself,"  pursued  the  other  in  smil- 
ing confidence.  "I  mean  no  harm.  I'm  curious,  that's 
all;  just  want  to  know  one  or  two  things.  We're  old 
friends,  and  whatever  you  tell  me  will  go  no  further,  de- 
pend upon  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

The  words  came  from  lips  that  moved  with  difficulty. 
Beatrice,  still  smiling,  bent  forward. 

"  Is  it  any  one  that  I  know  ? " 

"Anyone—?    Who—?" 

"  That  made  it  necessary  for  you  to  go  down  into  Corn- 
wall, my  dear." 

Nancy  heaved  a  sigh,  the  result  of  holding  her  breath 
too  long.  She  half  rose,  and  sat  down  again.  In  a  tor- 
ture of  flashing  thoughts,  she  tried  to  determine  whether 
Beatrice  had  any  information,  or  spoke  conjecturally. 
Yet  she  was  able  to  discern  that  either  case  meant  disas- 
ter ;  to  have  excited  the  suspicions  of  such  a  person,  was 
the  same  as  being  unmasked ;  an  inquiry  at  Falmouth, 
and  all  would  at  once  be  known. 

No,  not  all.  Not  the  fact  of  her  marriage;  nor  the 
name  of  her  husband. 

Driven  to  bay  by  such  an  opponent,  she  assumed  an  air 
wholly  unnatural  to  her — one  of  cynical  effrontery. 

"  You  had  better  say  what  you  know." 

"  All  right.  Who  was  the  father  of  the  child  born  not 
long  ago  ? " 

"  That's  asking  a  question." 


258  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  And  telling  what  I  know  at  the  same  time.  It  saves 
breath." 

Beatrice  laughed ;  and  Nancy,  become  a  mere  automa- 
ton, laughed  too. 

"That's  more  like  it,"  said  Miss  French  cheerfully. 
"  Now  we  shall  get  on  together.  It's  very  shocking,  my 
dear.  A  person  of  my  strict  morality  hardly  knows  hoAV 
to  look  you  in  the  face.  Perhaps  you  had  rather  I  didn't 
try.  Very  well.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  comfortably. 
I  have  a  guess,  you  know." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Wait  a  little.  I  don't  want  to  be  laughed  at.  Is  it 
any  one  I  know  ? " 

"  You  have  never  seen  him,  and  I  dare  say  never  heard 
of  him." 

Beatrice  stared  incredulously. 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  fibs,  Nancy." 

"  I'm  telling  the  truth." 

"  It's  very  queer,  then." 

"  Who  did  you  think ? " 

The  speaking  automaton,  as  though  by  defect  of  mech- 
anism, stopped  short. 

"  Look  straight  at  me.  I  shouldn't  have  been  surprised 
to  hear  that  it  was  Luckworth  Crewe." 

Nancy's  defiant  gaze,  shame  in  anguish  shielding  itself 
with  the  front  of  audacity,  changed  to  utter  astonishment. 
The  blood  rushed  back  into  her  cheeks;  she  voiced  a 
smothered  exclamation  of  scorn. 

"  The  father  of  my  child  ?    Luckworth  Crewe  ? " 

"I  thought  it  not  impossible,"  said  Beatrice,  plainly 
baffled. 

" It  was  like  you."  Nancy  gave  a  hard  laugh.  "You 
judged  me  by  yourself.  Have  another  guess  ! " 

Surprised  both  at  the  denial,  so  obviously  true,  and  at 
the  unexpected  tone  with  which  Nancy  was  meeting  her 
attack,  Miss  French  sat  meditative. 

"  It's  no  use  guessing,"  she  said  at  length,  with  com- 
plete good-humour.  "  I  don't  know  of  any  one  else." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  259 

"Very  well.    You  can't  expect  me  to  tell  you." 

"As  you  please.  It's  a  queer  thing;  I  felt  pretty  sure. 
But  if  you're  telling  the  truth,  I  don't  care  a  rap  who  the 
man  is." 

"You  can  rest  in  peace,"  said  Nancy,  with  careless 
scorn. 

"  Any  way  of  convincing  me,  except  by  saying  it  ? " 

"  Yes.     Wait  here  a  moment." 

She  left  the  room,  and  returned  with  the  note  which 
Crewe  had  addressed  to  her  from  the  hotel  at  Falmouth. 

"  Read  that,  and  look  at  the  date." 

Beatrice  studied  the  document,  and  in  silence  canvassed 
the  possibilities  of  trickery.  No ;  it  was  genuine  evidence. 
She  remembered  the  date  of  Crewe's  journey  to  Falmouth, 
and,  in  this  new  light,  could  interpret  his  quarrelsome  be- 
haviour after  he  had  returned.  Only  the  discovery  she 
had  since  made  inflamed  her  with  a  suspicion  which  till 
then  had  never  entered  her  mind. 

"  Of  course,  you  didn't  let  him  see  you  ? " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  All  right.  Don't  suppose  I  wanted  to  insult  you.  I 
took  it  for  granted  you  were  married.  Of  course  it  hap- 
pened before  your  father's  death,  and  his  awkward  will 
obliged  you  to  keep  it  dark  ? " 

Again  Nancy  was  smitten  with  fear.  Deeming  Miss 
French  an  unscrupulous  enemy,  she  felt  that  to  confess 
marriage  was  to  abandon  every  hope.  Pride  appealed  to 
her  courage,  bade  her,  here  and  now,  have  done  with  the 
ignoble  fraud;  but  fear  proved  stronger.  She  could  not 
face  exposure,  and  all  that  must  follow. 

She  spoke  coldly,  but  with  down-dropt  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  married." 

The  words  cost  her  little  effort.  Practically,  she  had 
uttered  them  before ;  her  overbold  replies  were  an  admis- 
sion of  what,  from  the  first,  she  supposed  Beatrice  to 
charge  her  with — not  secret  wedlock,  but  secret  shame. 
Beatrice,  however,  had  adopted  that  line  of  suggestion 
merely  from  policy,  hoping  to  sting  the  proud  girl  into 


260  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

avowal  of  a  legitimate  union ;  she  heard  the  contrary  dec- 
laration with  fresh  surprise. 

u  I  should  never  have  believed  it  of  Miss  Lord,"  was 
her  half  ingenuous,  half  sly  comment. 

Nancy,  beginning  to  realise  what  she  had  done,  sat  with 
head  bent,  speechless. 

u  Don't  distress  yourself,"  continued  the  other.  "  Not  a 
soul  will  hear  of  it  from  me.  If  you  like  to  tell  me  more, 
you  can  do  it  quite  safely ;  I'm  no  blabber,  and  I'm  not 
a  rascal.  I  should  never  have  troubled  to  make  inquiries 
about  you,  down  yonder,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  I  suspected 
Crewe.  That's  a  confession,  you  know ;  take  it  in  return 
for  yours." 

Nancy  was  tongue-tied.  A  full  sense  of  her  humilia- 
tion had  burst  upon  her.  She,  who  always  condescended 
to  Miss  French,  now  lay  smirched  before  her  feet,  an  ob- 
ject of  vulgar  contempt. 

u  What  does  it  matter  ? "  went  on  Beatrice  genially. 
"  You've  got  over  the  worst,  and  very  cleverly.  Are  you 
going  to  marry  him  when  you  come  in  for  your  money  ? " 

"  Perhaps — I  don't  know " 

She  faltered,  no  longer  able  to  mask  in  impudence, 
and  hardly  restraining  tears.  Beatrice  ceased  to  doubt, 
and  could  only  wonder  with  amusement. 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  be  good  friends,  Nancy  ?  I  tell 
you,  I  am  no  rascal.  I  never  thought  of  making  any- 
thing out  of  your  secret — not  I.  If  it  had  been  Crewe, 
marriage  or  no  marriage — well,  I  might  have  shown  my 
temper.  I  believe  I  have  a  pretty  rough  side  to  my 
tongue ;  but  I'm  a  good  enough  sort  if  you  take  me  in  the 
right  way.  Of  course  I  shall  never  rest  for  wondering 
who  it  can  be — 

She  paused,  but  Nancy  did  not  look  up,  did  not  stir. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  some  other  time.  But  there's 
one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  about,  and  it's  for  your  own 
good  that  I  should  know  it.  When  Crewe  was  down 
there,  don't  you  think  he  tumbled  to  anything  ? " 

Perplexed  by  unfamiliar  slang,  Nancy  raised  her  eyes. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  261 

"  Found  out  anything,  you  mean  ?    I  don't  know." 

"  But  you  must  have  been  in  a  jolly  fright  about  it  ? " 

"I  gave  it  very  little  thought,"  replied  Nancy,  able 
now  to  command  a  steady  voice,  and  retiring  behind  a 
manner  of  frigid  indifference. 

"  No  ?  Well,  of  course  I  understand  that  better  now  I 
know  that  you  can't  lose  anything.  Still,  it  is  to  be  hoped 
he  didn't  go  asking  questions.  By-the-bye,  you  may  as 
well  just  tell  me  :  he  has  asked  you  to  marry  him,  hasn't 
he?" 

uYes." 

Beatrice  nodded, 

"Doesn't  matter.  You  needn't  be  afraid,  even  if  lie 
got  hold  of  anything.  He  isn't  the  kind  of  man  to  injure 
you  out  of  spite." 

"  I  fear  him  as  little  as  I  fear  you." 

"  Well,  as  I've  told  you,  you  needn't  fear  me  at  all.  I 
like  you  better  for  this — a  good  deal  better  than  I  used  to. 
If  you  want  any  help,  you  know  where  to  turn ;  I'll  do 
whatever  I  can  for  you ;  and  I'm  in  the  way  of  being  use- 
ful to  my  friends.  You're  cut  up  just  now ;  it's  natural. 
I  won't  bother  you  any  longer.  But  just  remember  what 
I've  said.  If  I  can  be  of  any  service,  don't  be  above  mak- 
ing use  of  me." 

Nancy  heard  without  heeding-  for  an  anguish  of 
shame  and  misery  once  more  fell  upon  her,  and  seemed  to 
lay  waste  her  soul. 


PART  FIFTH— COMPASSED  ROUND. 


THERE  needed  not  Mary  Woodruff's  suggestion  to  re- 
mind Nancy  that  no  further  away  than  Champion  Hill 
were  people  of  whom,  in  extremity,  she  might  inquire 
concerning  her  husband.  At  present,  even  could  she 
have  entertained  the  thought,  it  seemed  doubtful  whether 
the  Vawdrey  household  knew  more  of  Tarrant's  position 
and  purposes  than  she  herself;  for,  only  a  month  ago, 
Jessica  Morgan  had  called  upon  the  girls  and  had  ven- 
tured a  question  about  their  cousin,  whereupon  they  an- 
swered that  he  was  in  America,  but  that  he  had  not 
written  for  a  long  time.  To  Mrs.  Baker,  Jessica  did  not 
like  to  speak  on  the  subject,  but  probably  that  lady  could 
have  answered  only  as  the  children  did. 

Once,  indeed,  a  few  days  after  her  return,  Nancy  took 
the  familiar  walk  along  Champion  Hill,  and  glanced,  in 
passing,  at  Mr.  Vawdrey's  house  ;  afterwards,  she  shunned 
that  region.  The  memories  it  revived  were  infinitely 
painful.  She  saw  herself  an  immature  and  foolish  girl, 
behaving  in  a  way  which,  for  all  its  affectation  of  reserve 
and  dignity,  no  doubt  offered  to  such  a  man  as  Lionel 
Tarrant  a  hint  that  here,  if  he  chose,  he  might  make  a 
facile  conquest.  Had  he  not  acted  upon  the  hint  ?  It 
wrung  her  heart  with  shame  to  remember  how,  in  those 
days,  she  followed  the  lure  of  a  crude  imagination.  A 
year  ago  ?  Oh,  a  lifetime  ! 

Unwilling,  now,  to  justify  herself  with  the  plea  of 
love  ;  doubtful,  in  very  truth,  whether  her  passion  merited 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  263 

that  name ;  she  looked  back  in  the  stern  spirit  of  a  woman 
judging  another's  frailty.  What  treatment  could  she  have 
anticipated  at  the  hands  of  her  lover  save  that  she  had  re- 
ceived ?  He  married  her — it  was  much  ;  he  forsook  her — 
it  was  natural.  The  truth  of  which  she  had  caught 
troublous  glimpses  in  the  heyday  of  her  folly  now  stood 
revealed  as  pitiless  condemnation.  Tarrant  never  re- 
spected her,  never  thought  of  her  as  a  woman  whom  he 
could  seriously  woo  and  wed.  She  had  a  certain  power 
over  his  emotions,  and  not  the  sensual  alone ;  but  his  love 
would  not  endure  the  test  of  absence.  From  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic  he  saw  her  as  he  had  seen  her  at  first, 
and  shrank  from  returning  to  the  bondage  which  in  a 
weak  moment  he  had  accepted. 

One  night  about  this  time  she  said  to  herself : 

"  I  was  his  mistress,  never  his  wife." 

And  all  her  desperate  endeavours  to  obscure  the  his- 
tory of  their  love,  to  assert  herself  as  worthy  to  be  called 
wife,  mother,  had  fallen  fruitless.  Those  long  imploring 
letters,  despatched  to  America  from  her  solitude  by  the 
Cornish  sea,  elicited  nothing  but  a  word  or  two  which 
sounded  more  like  pity  than  affection.  Pity  does  not  suf- 
fice to  recall  the  wandering  steps  of  a  man  wedded  against 
his  will. 

In  her  heart,  she  absolved  him  of  all  baseness.  The 
man  of  ignoble  thought  would  have  been  influenced  by 
her  market  value  as  a  wife.  Tarrant,  all  the  more  be- 
cause he  was  reduced  to  poverty,  would  resolutely  forget 
the  crude  advantage  of  remaining  faithful  to  her. 

Herein  Nancy  proved  herself  more  akin  to  her  father 
than  she  had  ever  seemed  when  Stephen  Lord  sought 
eagerly  in  her  character  for  hopeful  traits. 

The  severity  of  her  self -judgment,  and  the  indulgence 
tempering  her  attitude  towards  Tarrant,  declared  a  love 
which  had  survived  its  phase  of  youthful  passion.  But 
Nancy  did  not  recognise  this  symptom  of  moral  growth. 
She  believed  herself  to  have  become  indifferent  to  her 
husband,  and  only  wondered  that  she  did  not  hate  him. 


264  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  spend  all  its  emotion  on  the  little 
being  to  whom  she  had  given  life — a  healthy  boy,  who 
already,  so  she  fancied,  knew  a  difference  between  his 
mother  and  his  nurse,  and  gurgled  a  peculiar  note  of  con- 
tentment when  lying  in  her  arms.  Whether  wife  or  not, 
she  claimed  every  privilege  of  motherhood.  Had  the 
child  been  a  weakling,  she  could  not  have  known  this 
abounding  solace  :  the  defect  would  have  reproached  her. 
But  from  the  day  of  his  birth  he  manifested  so  vigorous 
a  will  to  live,  clung  so  hungrily  to  the  fountain-breast, 
kicked  and  clamoured  with  such  irresistible  self-assertion, 
that  the  mother's  pride  equalled  her  tenderness.  "My 
own  brave  boy !  My  son ! "  Wonderful  new  words : 
honey  upon  the  lips  and  rapture  to  the  ear.  She  mur- 
mured them  as  though  inspired  with  speech  never  uttered 
by  mortal. 

The  interval  of  a  day  between  her  journeys  to  see  the 
child  taxed  her  patience ;  but  each  visit  brought  a  growth 
of  confidence.  No  harm  would  befall  him:  Mary  had 
chosen  wisely. 

Horace  kept  aloof  and  sent  no  message.  When  at 
length  she  wrote  to  him  a  letter  all  of  sisterly  kindness, 
there  came  a  stinted  reply.  He  said  that  he  was  going 
away  for  a  holiday,  and  might  be  absent  until  September. 
"Don't  bother  about  me.  You  shall  hear  again  before 
long.  There's  just  a  chance  that  I  may  go  in  for  business 
again,  with  prospect  of  making  money.  Particulars  when 
I  see  you." 

Nancy  found  this  note  awaiting  her  after  a  day's  ab- 
sence from  home,  and  with  it  another.  To  her  surprise, 
Mrs.  Darner  el  had  written.  "  I  called  early  this  afternoon, 
wishing  particularly  to  see  you.  Will  you  please  let  me 
know  when  I  should  find  you  at  home  ?  It  is  about 
Horace  that  I  want  to  speak."  It  began  with  "  My  dear 
Nancy,"  and  ended,  "  Yours  affectionately."  Glad  of  the 
opportunity  thus  offered,  she  answered  at  once,  making  an 
appointment  for  the  next  day. 

When    Mrs.   Damerel    came,   Nancy  was  even  more 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  2G5 

struck  than  at  their  former  meeting  with  her  resemblance 
to  Horace.  Eyes  and  lips  recalled  Horace  at  every  mo- 
ment. This  time,  the  conversation  began  more  smoothly. 
On  both  sides  appeared  a  disposition  to  friendliness, 
though  Nancy  only  marked  her  distrust  in  the  hope  of 
learning  more  about  this  mysterious  relative  and  of  being 
useful  to  her  brother. 

"  You  have  a  prejudice  against  me,"  said  the  visitor, 
when  she  had  inquired  concerning  Nancy's  health.  "  It's 
only  natural."  I  hardly  seem  to  you  a  real  relative,  I'm 
afraid — you  know  so  little  about  me;  and  now  Horace 
has  been  laying  dreadful  things  to  my  charge." 

"He  thinks  you  responsible  for  what  has  happened 
to  Fanny  French,"  Nancy  replied,  in  an  impartial 
voice. 

"  Yes,  and  I  assure  you  he  is  mistaken.  Miss  French 
deceived  him  and  her  own  people,  leading  them  to  think 
that  she  was  spending  her  time  with  me,  when  really  she 
was — who  knows  where  ?  To  you  I  am  quite  ready  to 
confess  that  I  hoped  something  might  come  between  her 
and  Horace  ;  but  as  for  plotting — really  I  am  not  so  melo- 
dramatic a  person.  All  I  did  in  the  way  of  design  was  to 
give  Horace  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  girl  in  a  new 
light.  You  can  imagine  very  well,  no  doubt,  how  she 
conducted  herself.  I  quite  believe  that  Horace  was  getting 
tired  and  ashamed  of  her,  but  then  came  her  disappear- 
ance, and  that  made  him  angry  with  me." 

Even  the  voice  suggested  Horace's  tones,  especially 
when  softened  in  familiar  dialogue.  Nancy  paid  closer 
attention  to  the  speaker's  looks  and  movements  than  to 
the  matter  of  what  she  said.  Mrs.  Damerel  might  possibly 
be  a  well-meaning  woman — her  peculiarities  might  result 
from  social  habits,  and  not  from  insincerity ;  yet  Nancy 
could  not  like  her.  Everything  about  her  prompted  a 
question  and  a  doubt.  How  old  was  she  ?  Probably  much 
older  than  she  looked.  What  was  her  breeding,  her  edu- 
cation ?  Probably  far  less  thorough  than  she  would  have 
one  believe.  Was  she  in  good  circumstances  ?  Nancy 


266  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

suspected  that  her  fashionable  and  expensive  dress  signi- 
fied extravagance  and  vanity  rather  than  wealth. 

"  I  have  brought  a  letter  to  show  you  which  she  has 
sent  me  from  abroad.  Read  it,  and  form  your  own  con- 
clusion. Is  it  the  letter  of  an  injured  innocent  ?  " 

A  scrawl  on  foreign  note-paper,  which  ran  thus  : 

"  DEAR  MRS.  DAMEREL, — Just  a  word  to  console  you 
for  the  loss  of  my  society.  I  have  gone  to  a  better  world, 
so  dry  your  tears.  If  you  see  my  masher,  tell  him  I've 
met  with  somebody  a  bit  more  like  a  man.  I  should  ad- 
vise him  to  go  to  school  again  and  finish  his  education.  I 
won't  trouble  you  to  write.  Many  thanks  for  the  kind- 
ness you  didii't  mean  to  do  me. — Yours  in  the  best  of 
spirits  (I  don't  mean  Cognac), 

"FANNY  (nee)  FRENCH." 

Nancy  returned  the  paper  with  a  look  of  disgust,  say- 
ing, "  I  didn't  think  she  was  as  bad  as  that." 

"  No  more  did  I.  It  really  gave  me  a  little  shock  of 
surprise." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  likely  she  is  married  ?  " 

Mrs.  Damerel  pursed  her  lips  and  arched  her  eyebrows 
with  so  unpleasant  an  effect  on  Nancy  that  she  looked 
away. 

"  I  have  no  means  whatever  of  forming  an  opinion." 

"  But  there's  no  more  fear  for  Horace,"  said  Nancy. 

"  I  hope  not — I  think  not.  But  my  purpose  in  coming 
was  to  consult  with  you  about  the  poor  boy.  He  has  re- 
nounced me ;  he  won't  answer  my  letters ;  and  I  am  so 
dreadfully  afraid  that  a  sort  of  despair — it  sounds  ridicu- 
lous, but  he  is  so  very  young — may  drive  him  into  reckless 
living.  You  have  taken  part  with  him  against  me,  I 
fear " 

"  No,  I  haven't.  I  told  him  I  was  quite  sure  the  girl 
had  only  herself  to  blame,  whatever  happened." 

"  How  kind  of  you  ! "  Mrs.  Damerel  sank  her  voice  to 
a  sort  of  cooing,  not  unmelodious,  but  to  Nancy's  ear  a 
hollow  affectation.  "  If  we  could  understand  each  other  I 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  267 

I  am  so  anxious  for  your  dear  brother's  happiness — and 
for  yours,  believe  me.  I  have  suffered  greatly  since  he 
told  me  I  was  his  enemy,  and  cast  me  off." 

Here  sounded  a  note  of  pathos  which  impressed  the 
critical  listener.  There  was  a  look,  too,  in  Mrs.  Damerel's 
eyes  quite  unlike  any  that  Nancy  had  yet  detected. 

"  What  do  you  wish  him  to  do  ? "  she  asked.  "  If  I 
must  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  he'll  get  any  good  in 
the  life  of  society." 

Society's  representative  answered  in  a  tone  of  affec- 
tionate frankness : 

"  He  won't ;  I  can  see  that.  I  don't  wish  him  to  live 
idly.  The  question  is,  What  ought  he  to  do  ?  I  think 
you  know  a  gentleman  of  his  acquaintance,  Mr.  Ore  we  ? " 

The  question  was  added  rather  abruptly,  and  with  a 
watchful  gaze. 

"  I  know  him  a  little." 

"  Something  has  been  said,  I  believe,  about  Horace  in- 
vesting money  in  Mr.  Crewe's  business.  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  advisable  ? " 

Surprise  kept  Nancy  silent. 

"  Is  Mr.  Or  ewe  trustworthy  ?  I  understand  he  has 
been  in  business  for  himself  only  a  short  time." 

Nancy  declared  herself  unable  to  judge  Mr.  Crewe, 
whether  in  private  or  in  commercial  life.  And  here  she 
paused,  but  could  not  refrain  from  adding  the  question 
whether  Mrs.  Damerel  had  personal  knowledge  of  him. 

"  I  have  met  him  once." 

Immediately,  all  Nancy's  suspicions  were  revived. 
She  had  felt  a  desire  to  talk  of  intimate  things,  with  men- 
tion of  her  mother's  name ;  but  the  repulsion  excited  in 
her  by  this  woman's  air  of  subtlety,  by  looks,  movements, 
tones  which  she  did  not  understand,  forbade  it.  She 
could  not  speak  with  satisfaction  even  of  Horace,  feeling 
that  Mrs.  Damerel's  affection,  however  genuine,  must 
needs  be  baleful.  From  this  point  her  part  in  the  dia- 
logue was  slight. 

*4  If  any  of  Miss  French's  relatives,"  said  the  visitor 


268  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

presently,  "  should  accuse  me  to  you,  you  will  be  able  to 
contradict  them.  I  am  sure  I  can  depend  upon  you  for 
that  service  ? " 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  see  them ;  and  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  care  very  little  what  was  said  about 
you  by  people  of  that  kind." 

"  I  care  little  enough,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Damerel,  with  a 
curl  of  the  lips.  "  It's  Horace  I  am  thinking  of.  These 
people  will  embitter  him  against  me,  so  long  as  they  have 
any  ground  to  go  upon." 

"  But  haven't  you  let  him  know  of  that  letter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Damerel  seemed  to  fall  into  abstraction,  answered 
with  a  vague  "  Yes,"  and  after  surveying  the  room,  said 
softly : 

"  So  you  must  live  here  alone  for  another  two  or  three 
years  ? " 

"  It  isn't  compulsory  :  it's  only  a  condition." 

Another  vague  u  Yes."     Then  : 

"  I  do  so  wish  Horace  would  come  back  and  make  his 
home  here." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  have  spoilt  him  for  that,"  said  Nancy, 
with  relief  in  this  piece  of  plain  speaking. 

Mrs.  Damerel  did  not  openly  resent  it.  She  looked  a 
mild  surprise,  and  answered  blandly : 

"  Then  I  must  undo  the  mischief.  You  shall  help  me. 
When  he  has  got  over  this  little  trouble,  he  will  see  who 
are  his  true  friends.  Let  us  work  together  for  his  good." 

Nancy  was  inclined,  once  more,  to  reproach  herself, 
and  listened  with  patience  whilst  her  relative  continued 
talking  in  grave  kindly  tones.  Lest  she  should  spoil  the 
i  effect  of  these  impressive  remarks,  Mrs.  Damerel  then  took 
leave.  In  shaking  hands,  she  bent  upon  the  girl  a  gaze  of 
affection,  and,  as  she  turned  away,  softly  sighed. 

Of  what  had  passed  in  the  recent  interview  with  Beatrice 
French,  Nancy  said  nothing  to  her  faithful  companion. 
This  burden  of  shame  must  be  borne  by  herself  alone.  It 
affected  profoundly  the  courageous  mood  which  had  prom- 
ised to  make  her  life  tolerable;  henceforth,  she  all  but 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  269 

abandoned  the  hope  of  gaining  that  end  for  which  she  had 
submitted  to  so  deep  a  humiliation.  Through  Beatrice, 
would  not  her  secret,  coloured  shamefully,  become  known 
to  Luckworth  Crewe,  and  to  others  ?  Already,  perchance, 
a  growing  scandal  attached  to  her  name.  Fear  had  enabled 
her  to  endure  dishonour  in  the  eyes  of  one  woman,  but  at 
any  moment  the  disgrace  might  front  her  in  an  intoler- 
able shape ;  then,  regardless  of  the  cost,  she  would  proclaim 
her  marriage,  and  have,  in  return  for  all  she  had  suffered, 
nothing  but  the  reproach  of  an  attempted  fraud. 

To  find  employment,  means  of  honourable  support,  was 
an  urgent  necessity. 

She  had  written,  in  reply  to  sundry  advertisements,  but 
without  result.  She  tried  to  draw  up  an  advertisement  on 
her  own  account,  but  found  the  difficulty  insuperable. 
What  was  there  she  could  do  ?  Teach  children,  perhaps ; 
but  as  a  visting  governess,  the  only  position  of  the  kind 
which  circumstances  left  open  to  her,  she  could  hope  for 
nothing  more  than  the  paltriest  remuneration.  Be  some- 
body's "  secretary  ? "  That  sounded  pleasant,  but  very 
ambitious :  a  sense  of  incompetency  chilled  her.  In  an 
office,  in  a  shop,  who  would  dream  of  giving  her  an 
engagement  ? 

Walking  about  the  streets  of  London  in  search  of  sug- 
gestions, she  gained  only  an  understanding  of  her  insig- 
nificance. In  the  battle  of  life  every  girl  who  could  work 
a  sewing-machine  or  make  a  match-box  was  of  more  ac- 
count than  she.  If  she  entered  a  shop  to  make  purchases, 
the  young  women  at  the  counter  seemed  to  smile  superi- 
ority. Of  what  avail  her  "education,"  her  "culture"? 
The  roar  of  myriad  industries  made  mocking  laughter  at 
such  futile  pretensions.  She  shrank  back  into  her  subur- 
ban home. 

A  little  book  on  "  employments  for  women,"  which  she 
saw  advertised  and  bought,  merely  heightened  her  dis- 
couragement. Here,  doubtless,  were  occupations  she  might 
learn ;  but  when  it  came  to  choosing,  and  contemplating 
the  practical  steps  that  must  be  taken,  her  heart  sank.  She 
18 


270  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

was  a  coward ;  she  dreaded  the  world ;  she  saw  as  never 
yet  the  blessedness  of  having  money  and  a  secure  home. 

The  word  "  home "  grew  very  sweet  to  her  ears.  A 
man,  she  said  to  herself,  may  go  forth  and  find  his  work, 
his  pleasure,  in  the  highways ;  but  is  not  a  woman's  place 
under  the  sheltering  roof  ?  What  right  had  a  mother  to 
be  searching  abroad  for  tasks  and  duties  ?  Task  enough, 
duty  obvious,  in  the  tending  of  her  child.  Had  she  but  a 
little  country  cottage  with  needs  assured,  and  her  baby 
cradled  beside  her,  she  would  ask  no  more. 

How  idle  all  the  thoughts  of  her  girlhood  !  How  little 
she  knew  of  life  as  it  would  reveal  itself  to  her  mature 
eyes! 

Fatigued  into  listlessness,  she  went  to  the  lending-li- 
brary, and  chose  a  novel  for  an  hour's  amusement.  It  hap- 
pened that  this  story  was  concerned  with  the  fortunes  of  a 
young  woman  who,  after  many  an  affliction  sore  dis- 
covered with  notable  suddenness  the  path  to  fame,  lucre, 
and  the  husband  of  her  heart :  she  became  at  a  bound  a 
successful  novelist.  Nancy's  cheek  flushed  with  a  splen- 
did thought.  Why  should  not  she  do  likewise  ?  At  all 
events — for  modesty  was  now  her  ruling  characteristic — 
why  should  she  not  earn  a  little  money  by  writing  stories  ? 
Numbers  of  women  took  to  it ;  not  a  few  succeeded.  It 
was  a  pursuit  that  demanded  no  apprenticeship,  that 
could  be  followed  in  the  privacy  of  home,  a  pursuit 
wherein  her  education  would  be  of  service.  With  im- 
agination already  fired  by  the  optimistic  author,  she  began 
to  walk  about  the  room  and  devise  romantic  incidents.  A 
love  story,  of  course — and  why  not  one  very  like  her  own  ? 
The  characters  were  ready  to  her  hands.  She  would  begin 
this  very  evening. 

Mary  saw  the  glow  upon  her  face,  the  delightful 
frenzy  in  her  eyes,  and  wondered. 

u  I  have  an  idea,"  said  Nancy.  "  Don't  ask  me  about  it. 
Just  leave  me  alone.  I  think  I  see  my  way." 

Daily  she  secluded  herself  for  several  hours ;  and,  what- 
ever the  literary  value  of  her  labour,  it  plainly  kept  her  in 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  271 

good  spirits,  and  benefited  her  health.  Save  for  the  visits 
to  her  baby,  regular  as  before,  she  hardly  left  home. 

Jessica  Morgan  came  very  often,  much  oftener  than 
Nancy  desired ;  not  only  was  her  talk  wearisome,  but  it 
consumed  valuable  time.  She  much  desired  to  see  the 
baby,  and  Nancy  found  it  difficult  to  invent  excuses  for 
her  unwillingness.  When  importunity  could  not  be 
otherwise  defeated,  she  pretended  a  conscientious  scruple. 

"  I  have  deceived  my  husband  in  telling  him  that  no 
one  knows  of  our  marriage  but  Mary.  If  I  let  you  see 
the  child,  I  should  feel  that  I  was  deceiving  him  again. 
Don't  ask  me ;  I  can't." 

Not  unnaturally  this  struck  Jessica  as  far-fetched.  She 
argued  against  it,  and  became  petulant.  Nancy  lost  pa- 
tience, but  remembered  in  time  that  she  was  at  Jessica's 
mercy,  and,  to  her  mortification,  had  to  adopt  a  coaxing, 
almost  a  suppliant,  tone,  with  the  result  that  Miss  Mor- 
gan's overweening  conceit  was  flattered  into  arrogance. 
Her  sentimental  protestations  became  strangely  mixed 
with  a  self-assertiveness  very  galling  to  Nancy's  pride. 
Without  the  slightest  apparent  cause  for  ill-humour,  she 
said  one  day : 

"  I  do  feel  sorry  for  you ;  it  must  be  a  dreadful  thing  to 
have  married  a  man  who  has  no  sense  of  honour." 

Nancy  fired  up. 

u  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  How  can  he  have,  when  he  makes  you  deceive  people 
in  this  way  for  the  sake  of  the  money  he'll  get  ? " 

"  He  doesn't !     It's  my  own  choice." 

"Then  he  oughtn't  to  let  you  do  it.  No  honourable 
man  would." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,"  Nancy  exclaimed, 
anger  blanching  her  cheek.  "  Please  don't  talk  about  my 
husband.  You  say  things  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  angry  !  "  The  facile  tears  started  in  Jes- 
sica's eyes.  u  It's  because  I  feel  indignant  on  your  ac- 
count, dear." 

"  I  don't  want  your  indignation.    Never  mention  this 


272  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

subject  again,  or  I  shall  feel  sure  you  do  it  on  purpose  to 
annoy  me." 

Jessica  melted  into  mawkishness ;  none  the  less,  Nancy 
felt  a  slave  to  her  former  friend,  who,  for  whatever  reason, 
seemed  to  have  grown  hypocritical  and  spiteful.  When 
next  the  girl  called,  she  was  told  that  Miss  Lord  had  left 
home  for  the  day,  a  fiction  which  spared  Nancy  an  hour's 
torment.  Miss  Morgan  made  up  for  it  by  coming  very 
early  on  the  next  Sunday  afternoon,  and  preparing  herself 
avowedly  for  a  stay  until  late  in  the  evening.  Resolute  to 
avoid  a  long  tete-a-tete,  which  was  sure  to  exasperate  her 
temper,  Nancy  kept  Mary  in  the  room,  and  listened  to  no 
hint  from  Jessica  that  they  should  retire  for  the  accus- 
tomed privacy. 

At  four  o'clock  they  were  joined  by  Samuel  Barmby, 
whom,  for  once,  Nancy  welcomed  with  pleasure.  Samuel, 
who  had  come  in  the  hope  of  finding  Miss  Lord  alone,  gave 
but  the  coldest  attention  to  Jessica;  Mary,  however,  he 
greeted  with  grave  courtesy,  addressing  to  her  several  re- 
marks which  were  meant  as  a  recognition  of  social  equality 
in  the  quondam  servant.  He  was  dressed  with  elaborate 
care.  Snowy  cuffs  concealed  half  his  hands;  his  mous- 
tache, of  late  in  training,  sketched  the  graceful  curve  it 
would  presently  achieve;  a  faint  perfume  attended  the 
drawing  forth  of  his  silk  handkerchief. 

Samuel  never  lacked  a  subject  for  the  display  of  elo- 
quence. To-day  it  was  one  that  called  for  indignant  fer- 
vour. 

"  A  most  disgraceful  fact  has  come  under  my  notice, 
and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Miss  Lord,  that  it  concerns  some 
one  with  whom  you  are  acquainted." 

"  Indeed  ? "  said  Nancy,  not  without  tremor.  "  Who  is 
that?" 

"  Mr.  Peachey,  of  De  Crespigny  Park.  I  believe  you 
are  on  terms  of  friendship  with  the  family." 

"  Oh,  you  can  hardly  call  it  friendship.    I  know  them." 

"  Then  I  may  speak  without  fear  of  paining  you.  You 
are  aware  that  Mr.  Peachey  is  a  member  of  the  firm  of 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  273 

Ducker,  Blunt  &  Co.,  who  manufacture  disinfectants. 
Now,  if  any  manufacture  should  be  carried  on  in  a  con- 
scientious spirit — as  of  course  all  manufactures  should — 
surely  it  is  that  of  disinfectants.  Only  think  what  depends 
upon  it !  People  who  make  disinfectants  ought  to  regard 
themselves  as  invested  with  a  sacred  trust.  The  whole 
community  looks  to  them  for  protection  against  disease. 
The  abuse  of  such  confidence  cannot  be  too  severely  con- 
demned, all  the  more  so,  that  there  is  absolutely  no  legal 
remedy  against  the  adulteration  of  disinfectants.  Did  you 
know  that,  Miss  Lord  ?  The  law  guards  against  the  adul- 
teration of  food,  but  it  seems — I  have  been  making  inquiry 
into  the  matter — that  no  thought  has  ever  been  given  by 
the  legislature  to  the  subject  of  disinfectants  ! " 

Nancy  saw  that  Jessica  was  watching  the  speaker  with 
jealous  eyes,  and,  in  spite  of  prudence,  she  could  not  help 
behaving  to  Mr.  Barmby  more  graciously  than  usual ;  a 
small  revenge  for  the  treatment  she  had  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  Miss  Morgan. 

"  I  could  point  out  a  great  number  of  such  anomalies," 
pursued  Samuel.  "But  this  matter  of  disinfectants  is 
really  one  of  the  gravest.  My  father  has  written  to  the 
Times  about  it,  and  his  letter  will  probably  be  inserted  to- 
morrow. I  am  thinking  of  bringing  it  before  the  atten- 
tion of  our  Society." 

"  Do  Mr.  Peachey's  people  adulterate  their  disinfect- 
ants ? "  inquired  Nancy. 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  Some  acquaintances  of  ours 
have  had  a  severe  illness  in  their  house,  and  have  been 
using  disinfectants  made  by  Ducker,  Blunt  &  Co.  Fortu- 
nately they  have  a  very  good  medical  man,  and  through 
him  it  has  been  discovered  that  these  pretended  safeguards 
are  all  but  absolutely  worthless.  He  had  the  stuff  ana- 
lysed. Now,  isn't  this  shameful  ?  Isn't  this  abominable  ? 
For  my  own  part,  I  should  call  it  constructive  murder." 

The  phrase  came  by  haphazard  to  Samuel's  tongue,  and 
he  uttered  it  with  gusto,  repeating  it  twice  or  thrice. 

"  Constructive  murder — nothing  short  of  that.    And  to 


274:  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

think  that  these  people  enjoy  a  positive  immunity — im- 
punity." He  corrected  himself  quickly;  then,  uncertain 
whether  he  had  really  made  a  mistake,  reddened  and 
twisted  his  gloves.  "To  think" — he  raised  his  voice — 
"  that  they  are  capable  of  making  money  out  of  disease 
and  death !  It  is  one  of  the  worst  illustrations  of  a  cor- 
rupt spirit  in  the  commercial  life  of  our  times  that  has  yet 
come  under  my  observation." 

He  remained  for  a  couple  of  hours,  talking  ceaselessly. 
A  glance  which  he  now  and  then  cast  at  Miss  Morgan  be- 
trayed his  hope  that  she  would  take  her  leave  before  the 
necessary  time  of  his  own  departure.  Jessica,  perfectly 
aware  of  this  desire,  sat  as  though  no  less  at  home  than 
Nancy.  Every  remark  she  made  was  a  stroke  of  malice 
at  her  friend,  and  in  her  drawn  features  appeared  the  pas- 
sions by  which  she  was  tormented. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Barmby  had  regretfully  withdrawn, 
Nancy  turned  upon  the  girl  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you.     Come  downstairs." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room.  Jessica  followed 
without  a  word. 

"  Why  are  you  behaving  like  this  ?  What  has  come  to 
you  ? " 

The  feeble  anaemic  creature  fell  back  before  this  out- 
break of  wholesome  wrath ;  her  eyes  stared  in  alarm. 

"  I  won't  put  up  with  it,"  cried  Nancy.  "  If  you  think 
you  can  insult  me  because  I  trusted  you  when  you  were 
my  only  friend,  you'll  find  your  mistake.  A  little  more, 
and  you  shall  see  how  little  your  power  over  me  is  worth. 
Am  I  to  live  at  your  mercy  !  I'd  starve,  rather.  What  do 
you  mean  by  it  ? " 

"Oh — Nancy — to  think  you  should  speak  to  me  like 
this." 

"  You  are  to  be  allowed  to  spit  poison  at  me — are  you  ? 
And  I  must  bear  it  ?  No,  that  I  won't !  Of  course  I  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  You  have  fallen  in  love  with 
Samuel  Barmby. — You  have  !  Any  one  can  see  it.  You 
have  no  more  command  of  yourself  than  a  child.  And 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  275 

because  lie  prefers  me  to  you,  you  rage  against  me.  Idiot ! 
What  is  Samuel  Barmby  to  me  ?  Can  I  do  more  to  keep 
him  off  ?  Can  I  say  to  him,  '  Do  have  pity  on  poor  Miss 
Morgan,  who — 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  scream,  on  which  followed  a 
torrent  of  frenzied  words  from  Jessica. 

"  You're  a  bad-  hearted  woman !  You've  behaved  dis- 
gracefully yourself — oh !  I  know  more  than  you  think ; 
and  now  you  accuse  me  of  being  as  bad.  Why  did  you 
get  married  in  such  a  hurry  ?  Do  you  think  I  didn't  un- 
derstand it  ?  It's  you  who  have  no  command  over  your- 
self. If  the  truth  were  known,  no  decent  woman  would 
ever  speak  to  you  again.  And  you've  got  your  reward. 
Pretend  as  you  like,  I  know  your  husband  has  de- 
serted you.  What  else  could  you  expect  ?  That's  what 
makes  you  hate  every  one  that  hasn't  fallen  into  the  mud. 
I  wouldn't  have  such  a  character  as  yours  !  All  this  after- 
noon you've  been  looking  at  that  man  as  no  married 
woman  could  who  respected  herself.  You  encourage  him ; 
he  comes  here  often — 

Hysterical  passion  strangled  her  voice,  and  before  she 
could  recover  breath,  Nancy,  terrible  in  ire,  advanced 
upon  her. 

"Leave  this  house,  and  never  dare  to  show  yourself 
here  again  !  Do  what  you  like,  I'll  endure  you  110  longer 
—be  off ! " 

Jessica  retreated,  her  bloodless  lips  apart,  her  eyes  start- 
ing as  in  suffocation.  She  stumbled  against  a  chair,  fell 
to  the  ground,  and,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees  before  Nancy. 

"  What  did  I  say  ?  I  didn't  mean  it— I  don't  know 
what  I  have  been  saying — it  was  all  madness.  Oh,  do 
forgive  me !  That  isn't  how  I  really  think  of  you — you 
know  it  isn't — I'm  not  so  wicked  as  that.  We  have  been 
friends  so  long — I  must  have  gone  mad  to  speak  such 
words.  Don't  drive  me  away  from  you,  dear,  dear  Nancy ! 
I  implore  you  to  forgive  me  !  Look,  I  pray  to  you  on  my 
knees  to  forget  it.  Despise  me  for  being  such  a  weak, 


276  1N  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

wicked  creature,  but  don't  drive  me  away  like  that!  I 
didn't  mean  one  word  I  said." 

u  Rubbish !  Of  course  you  meant  it.  You  have  thought 
it  every  day,  and  you'll  say  it  again,  behind  my  back,  if 
not  to  my  face.  Stand  up,  and  don't  make  yourself  sillier 
than  you  are." 

"  You  can't  call  me  anything  too  bad — but  don't  drive 
me  away.  I  can't  bear  it.  You  are  the  only  friend  I  have 
in  the  world — the  only,  only  friend.  No  one  was  ever 
kind  and  good  to  me  but  you,  and  this  is  how  I  have  re- 
paid you.  Oh,  I  hate  myself !  I  could  tear  my  tongue 
out  for  saying  such  things.  Only  say  that  you'll  try  to 
forgive  me — dear  Nancy — dear 

She  fell  with  face  upon  the  carpet,  and  grovelled  there 
in  anguish  of  conflicting  passions,  a  lamentable  object. 
"Unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  her,  Nancy  moved  away,  and 
stood  with  back  turned,  perforce  hearing  the  moans  and 
sobs  and  half -articulate  words  which  lasted  until  the  fit  of 
hysteria  left  its  victim  in  mute  exhaustion.  Then,  con- 
temptuously pitiful,  she  drew  near  again  to  the  prostrate 
figure. 

"  Stand  up  at  once,  and  let  us  have  an  end  of  this  vul- 
gar folly.  Stand  up,  or  I'll  leave  you  here,  and  never 
speak  to  you  again." 

"  Nancy — can  you  forgive  me  ? " 

"  I  believe  you  have  never  got  over  your  illness.  If  I 
were  you,  I  should  see  the  doctor  again,  and  try  to  be 
cured.  You'll  end  in  an  asylum,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  I  often  feel  almost  mad — I  do  really.  Will  you  for- 
get those  dreadful  words  I  spoke  ?  I  know  you  can't  for- 
give me  at  once ' 

"  Only  stand  up,  and  try  to  behave  like  a  reasonable 
being.  What  do  I  care  for  your  words  ? " 

The  girl  raised  herself,  threw  her  arms  over  a  chair, 
and  wept  miserably. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  277 


II 

ON  an  afternoon  at  the  end  of  October,  Samuel  Barmby, 
returned  from  business,  found  Miss  Morgan  having  tea 
with  his  sisters.  For  a  month  or  two  after  Midsummer 
the  Barmbys  had  scarcely  seen  her;  now  their  friendly 
intercourse  was  renewed,  and  Jessica  came  at  least  once  a 
week.  She  had  an  engagement  at  a  girls'  school  in  this 
neighbourhood,  and  though  her  health  threatened  another 
collapse,  she  talked  of  resuming  study  for  the  Matricula- 
tion of  next  year. 

Samuel,  perfectly  aware  of  the  slavish  homage  which 
Miss  Morgan  paid  him,  took  pleasure  in  posing  before  her. 
It  never  entered  his  mind  to  make  any  return  beyond 
genial  patronage,  but  the  incense  of  a  female  devotee  was 
always  grateful  to  him,  and  he  had  come  to  look  upon 
Jessica  as  a  young  person  peculiarly  appreciative  of  intel- 
lectual distinction.  A  week  ago,  walking  with  her  to  the 
omnibus  after  an  evening  she  had  spent  in  Dagmar  Road, 
he  had  indulged  a  spirit  of  confidence,  and  led  her  to  speak 
of  Nancy  Lord.  The  upshot  of  five  minutes'  conversation 
was  a  frank  inquiry,  which  he  could  hardly  have  per- 
mitted himself  but  for  the  shadow  of  night  and  the  isolat- 
ing noises  around  them.  As  an  intimate  friend,  did  she 
feel  able  to  tell  him  whether  or  not  Miss  Lord  was  engaged 
to  be  married  ?  Jessica,  after  a  brief  silence,  answered 
that  she  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  disclose  what  she  knew 
on  the  subject ;  but  the  words  she  used,  and  her  voice  in 
uttering  them,  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  meaning.  Samuel 
said  no  more.  At  parting,  he  pressed  the  girl's  hand 
warmly. 

This  afternoon,  they  began  by  avoiding  each  other's 
look.  Samuel  seemed  indisposed  for  conversation;  he 
sipped  at  a  cup  of  tea  with  an  abstracted  and  somewhat 
weary  air,  until  Miss  Morgan  addressed  him. 

"  To-morrow  is  the  evening  of  your  lecture,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Barmby  ? " 

"  To-morrow." 


278  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

By  the  agency  of  a  friend  who  belonged  to  a  society  of 
mutual  improvement  at  Pentonville,  Samuel  had  been  in- 
vited to  go  over  and  illumine  with  his  wisdom  the  seekers 
after  culture  in  that  remote  district,  a  proposal  that  nat- 
tered him  immensely,  and  inspired  him  with  a  hope  of  more 
than  suburban  fame.  For  some  months  he  had  spoken  of 
the  engagement.  He  was  to  discourse  upon  "  National 
Greatness :  its  Obligations  and  its  Dangers." 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  printed  afterwards  ? "  pursued  the 
devotee. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     It's  hardly  worth  that." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  it  will  be  ! " 

And  Jessica  appealed  to  the  sisters,  who  declared  that 
certain  passages  they  had  been  privileged  to  hear  seemed 
to  them  very  remarkable. 

Ladies  were  to  be  admitted,  but  the  Miss  Barmbys  felt 
afraid  to  undertake  so  long  a  journey  after  dark. 

"  I  know  some  one  who  would  very  much  like  to  go," 
said  Jessica,  steadying  her  voice.  "  Could  you  spare  me  a 
ticket  to  give  away,  Mr.  Barmby  ? " 

Samuel  smiled  graciously,  and  promised  the  ticket. 

Of  course  it  was  for  Jessica's  own  use.  On  the  follow- 
ing evening,  long  before  the  hour  which  would  have 
allowed  her  ample  time  to  reach  Pentonville  by  eight 
o'clock,  she  set  forth  excitedly.  Unless  Samuel  Barmby 
were  accompanied  by  some  friend  from  Camberwell, — 
only  too  probable, — she  might  hope  to  make  the  return 
journey  under  his  protection.  Perhaps  he  would  speak 
again  of  Nancy  Lord,  and  this  time  he  should  be  answered 
with  less  reserve.  What  harm  if  she  even  told  him  the 
name  of  the  man  whom  Nancy  was  "  engaged  "  to  marry  ? 

Nancy  was  no  longer  her  friend.  A  show  of  recon- 
ciliation had  followed  that  scene  on  the  Sunday  afternoon 
three  months  ago ;  but  Jessica  well  knew  that  she  had 
put  herself  beyond  forgiveness,  nor  did  she  desire  it. 
Even  without  the  memory  of  her  offence,  by  this  time  she 
must  needs  have  regarded  Nancy  with  steadfast  dislike. 
Weeks  had  gone  by  since  their  last  meeting,  which  was 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  279 

rendered  so  unpleasant  by  mutual  coldness  that  a  renewal 
of  intercourse  seemed  out  of  the  question. 

She  would  not  be  guilty  of  treachery.  But,  in  justice 
to  herself,  she  might  give  Samuel  Barmby  to  understand 
how  hopeless  was  his  wooing. 

To  her  disappointment,  the  lecture-room  was  small  and 
undignified  ;  she  had  imagined  a  capacious  hall,  with 
Samuel  Bennett  Barmby  standing  up  before  an  audience 
of  several  hundred  people.  The  cane-bottomed  chairs 
numbered  not  more  than  fifty,  and  at  eight  o'clock  some 
of  them  were  still  unoccupied.  Nor  did  the  assembly 
answer  to  her  expectation.  It  seemed  to  consist  of  young 
shopmen,  with  a  few  females  of  their  kind  interspersed. 
She  chose  a  place  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  the 
lecturer  could  hardly  fail  to  observe  her  presence. 

With  Barmby's  entrance  disillusion  gave  way  before 
the  ardours  of  flesh  and  spirit.  The  whole  hour  through 
she  never  took  her  eyes  from  him.  His  smooth,  pink 
face,  with  its  shining  moustache,  embodied  her  ideal  of 
manly  beauty ;  his  tall  figure  inflamed  her  senses ;  the 
words  that  fell  from  his  lips  sounded  to  her  with  oracular 
impressiveness,  conveying  a  wisdom  before  which  she 
bowed,  and  a  noble  enthusiam  to  which  she  responded  in 
fervent  exaltation.  And  she  had  been  wont  to  ridicule 
this  man,  to  join  in  mockery  of  his  eloquence  with  a  con- 
ceited wanton  such  as  Nancy  Lord  !  No,  it  never  came 
from  her  heart ;  it  was  moral  cowardice  ;  from  the  first 
she  had  recognised  Samuel  Barmby's  infinite  superiority 
to  the  ignoble,  the  impure  girl  who  dared  to  deride 
him. 

He  saw  her ;  their  eyes  met  once,  and  again,  and  yet 
again.  He  knew  that  she  alone  in  the  audience  could 
comprehend  his  noble  morality,  grasp  the  extent  of  his 
far-sighted  speculations.  To  her  he  spoke.  And  in  his 
deep  glowing  heart  he  could  not  but  thank  her  for  such 
evidence  of  sympathy. 

There  followed  a  tedious  debate,  a  muddy  flow  of 
gabble  and  balderdash.  It  was  over  by  ten  o'clock. 


280  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

With  jealous  eyes  she  watched  her  hero  surrounded  by 
people  who  thought,  poor  creatures,  that  they  were 
worthy  of  offering  him  congratulations.  At  a  distance 
she  lingered.  And  behold,  his  eye  once  more  fell  upon 
her  !  He  came  out  from  among  the  silly  chatterers,  and 
walked  towards  her. 

"  You  played  me  a  trick,  Miss  Morgan.  I  should 
never  have  allowed  you  to  come  all  this  way  to  hear 
me." 

"  If  I  had  come  ten  times  the  distance,  I  should  have 
been  repaid ! " 

His  round  eyes  gloated  upon  the  flattery. 

"  Well,  well,  I  mustn't  pretend  that  I  think  the  lecture 
worthless.  But  you  might  have  had  the  manuscript  to 
read.  Are  you  quite  alone  ?  Then  I  must  take  care  of 
you.  It's  a  wretched  night ;  we'll  have  a  cab  to  King's 
Cross." 

He  said  it  with  a  consciousness  of  large-handed  gen- 
erosity. Jessica's  heart  leapt  and  throbbed. 

She  was  by  his  side  in  the  vehicle.  Her  body  touched 
his.  She  felt  his  warm  breath  as  he  talked.  In  all  too 
short  a  time  they  reached  the  railway  station. 

"  Did  you  come  this  way  ?  Have  you  a  ticket  ?  Leave 
that  to  me." 

Again  largely  generous,  he  strode  to  the  booking- 
office. 

They  descended  and  stood  together  upon  the  platform, 
among  hurrying  crowds,  in  black  fumes  that  poisoned  the 
palate  with  sulphur.  This  way  and  that  sped  the  demon 
engines,  whirling  lighted  waggons  full  of  people.  Shrill 
whistles,  the  hiss  and  roar  of  steam,  the  bang,  clap,  bang 
of  carriage-doors,  the  clatter  of  feet  on  wood  and  stone — 
all  echoed  and  reverberated  from  a  huge  cloudy  vault 
above  them.  High  and  low,  on  every  available  yard  of 
wall,  advertisements  clamoured  to  the  eye :  theatres, 
journals,  soaps,  medicines,  concerts,  furniture,  wines, 
prayer-meetings — all  the  produce  and  refuse  of  civilisa- 
tion announced  in  staring  letters,  in  daubed  effigies,  base, 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  281 

paltry,  grotesque.  A  battle-ground  of  advertisements, 
fitly  chosen  amid  subterranean  din  and  reek  ;  a  symbol  to 
the  gaze  of  that  relentless  warfare  which  ceases  not  night 
and  day,  in  the  world  above. 

For  the  southward  train  they  had  to  wait  ten  minutes. 
Jessica,  keeping  as  close  as  possible  to  her  companion's 
side,  tried  to  converse,  but  her  thoughts  were  in  a  tumult 
like  to  that  about  her.  She  felt  a  faintness,  a  quivering  in 
her  limbs. 

"  May  I  sit  down  for  a  moment  ?  "  she  said,  looking  at 
Barm  by  with  a  childlike  appeal. 

"  To  be  sure." 

She  pointed  in  a  direction  away  from  the  crowd. 

"  I  have  something  to  say — it's  quieter — 

Samuel  evinced  surprise,  but  allowed  himself  to  be  led 
towards  the  black  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  whence  at  that 
moment  rushed  an  engine  with  glaring  lights  upon  its 
breast. 

"  We  may  not  be  alone  in  the  train,"  continued  Jessica. 
u  There's  something  you  ought  to  know  I  must  tell  you 
to-night.  You  were  asking  me  about  Nancy  Lord." 

She  spoke  with  panting  breath,  and  looked  fixedly  at 
him.  The  eagerness  with  which  he  lent  ear  gave  her 
strength  to  proceed. 

"  You  asked  me  if  she  was  engaged." 

«  Yes— well  ?  " 

He  had  even  forgotten  his  politeness  ;  he  saw  in  her  a 
mere  source  of  information.  Jessica  moved  closer  to  him 
on  the  bench. 

"  Had  you  any  reason  for  thinking  she  was  ?  " 

"  No  particular  reason,  except  something  strange  in  her 
behaviour." 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  the  whole  truth  ?  " 

It  was  a  very  cold  night,  and  a  keen  wind  swept  the 
platform ;  but  Jessica,  though  indifferently  clad,  felt  no 
discomfort  from  this  cause.  Yet  she  pressed  closer  to 
her  companion,  so  that  her  cheek  all  but  touched  his 
shoulder. 


282  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Of  course  I  should,"  Barmby  answered.  "Is  there 
any  mystery  ? " 

"  I  oughtn't  to  tell." 

"  Then  you  had  better  not.     But  why  did  you  begin  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know." 

"  Why  ought  I  to  know  ?  " 

"Because  you ."  She  broke  off.  A  sudden  chill 

made  her  teeth  chatter. 

"  Well — why  ? "  asked  Samuel,  with  impatience. 

"  Are  you — are  you  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

Voice  and  look  embarrassed  him.  So  did  the  giiTs 
proximity  ;  she  was  now  all  but  leaning  on  his  shoulder. 
Respectable  Mr.  Barmby  could  not  be  aware  that  Jessica's 
state  of  mind  rendered  her  scarcely  responsible  for  what 
she  said  or  did. 

"  That's  a  very  plain  question,"  he  began ;  but  she  in- 
terrupted him. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  ask  it.  There's  no  need  for  you  to 
answer.  I  know  you  have  wanted  to  marry  her  for  a 
long  time.  But  you  never  will." 

"  Perhaps  not — if  she  has  promised  somebody  else." 

"  If  I  toll  you — will  you  be  kind  to  me  ?  " 

"  Kind  ? " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  added  hurriedly.  "  I  mean 
— will  you  understand  that  I  felt  it  a  duty  ?  I  oughtn't  to 
tell  a  secret ;  but  it's  a  secret  that  oughtn't  to  be  kept. 
Will  you  understand  that  I  did  it  out  of — out  of  friendship 
for  you,  and  because  I  thought  it  right  ? " 

"  Oh,  certainly.  After  going  so  far,  you  had  better  tell 
me  and  have  done  with  it." 

Jessica  approached  her  lips  to  his  ear,  and  whispered  : 

"  She  is  married." 

"What?    Impossible!" 

"  She  was  married  at  Teignmouth,  just  before  she  came 
back  from  her  holiday,  last  year." 

"  Well !  Upon  my  word !  And  that's  why  she  has 
been  away  in  Cornwall  ? " 

Again  Jessica  whispered,  her  body  quivering  the  while : 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  283 

"  She  has  a  child.     It  was  born  last  May." 

u  Well !  Upon  my  word  !  Now  I  understand.  Who 
could  have  imagined !  " 

"  You  see  what  she  is.  She  hides  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
money." 

"  But  who  is  her  husband  ? "  asked  Samuel,  staring  at 
the  bloodless  face. 

"  A  man  called  Tarrant,  a  relative  of  Mr.  Vawdrey,  of 
Champion  Hill.  She  thought  he  was  rich.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  is  or  not,  but  I  believe  he  doesn't  mean  to 
come  back  to  her.  He's  in  America  now." 

Barmby  questioned,  and  Jessica  answered,  until  there 
was  nothing  left  to  ask  or  to  tell, — save  the  one  thing 
which  rose  suddenly  to  Jessica's  lips. 

"  You  won't  let  her  know  that  I  have  told  you  ? " 

Samuel  gravely,  but  coldly,  assured  her  that  she  need 
not  fear  betrayal. 


Ill 

IT  was  to  be  in  three  volumes.  She  saw  her  way  pretty 
clearly  to  the  end  of  the  first ;  she  had  ideas  for  the  sec- 
ond ;  the  third  must  take  care  of  itself — until  she  reached 
it.  Hero  and  heroine  ready  to  her  hand;  subordinate 
characters  vaguely  floating  in  the  background.  After  an 
hour  or  two  of  meditation,  she  sat  down  and  dashed  at 
Chapter  One. 

Long  before  the  end  of  the  year  it  ought  to  be  fin- 
ished. 

But  in  August  came  her  baby's  first  illness  ;  for  nearly 
a  fortnight  she  was  away  from  home,  and  on  her  return, 
though  no  anxiety  remained,  she  found  it  difficult  to  re- 
sume work.  The  few  chapters  completed  had  a  sorry  look ; 
they  did  not  read  well,  not  at  all  like  writing  destined  to 
be  read  in  print.  After  a  week's  disheartenment  she 
made  a  new  beginning. 

At  the  end  'of  September  baby  again  alarmed  her.  A 
trivial  ailment  as  before,  but  she  could  not  leave  the  child 


284:  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

until  all  was  well.  Again  she  reviewed  her  work,  and 
with  more  repugnance  than  after  the  previous  interrup- 
tion. But  go  on  with  it  she  must  and  would.  The  dis- 
tasteful labour,  slow,  wearisome,  often  performed  without 
pretence  of  hope,  went  on  until  October.  Then  she  broke 
down.  Mary  Woodruff  found  her  crying  by  the  fireside, 
feverish  and  unnerved. 

"I  can't  sleep,"  she  said.  "I  hear  the  clock  strike 
every  hour,  night  after  night." 

But  she  would  not  confess  the  cause.  In  writing  her 
poor  novel  she  had  lived  again  through  the  story  enacted 
at  Teignmouth,  and  her  heart  failed  beneath  its  burden  of 
hopeless  longing.  Her  husband  had  forsaken  her.  Even 
if  she  saw  him  again,  what  solace  could  be  found  in  the 
mere  proximity  of  a  man  who  did  not  love  her,  who  had 
never  loved  her  ?  The  child  was  not  enough  ;  its  father- 
less estate  enhanced  the  misery  of  her  own  solitude. 
When  the  leaves  fell,  and  the  sky  darkened,  and  the  long 
London  winter  gloomed  before  her,  she  sank  with  a  moan 
of  despair. 

Mary's  strength  and  tenderness  were  now  invaluable. 
By  sheer  force  of  will  she  overcame  the  malady  in  its 
physical  effects,  and  did  wonders  in  the  assailing  of  its 
moral  source.  Her  appeal  now,  as  formerly,  was  to  the 
nobler  pride  always  struggling  for  control  in  Nancy's 
character.  A  few  days  of  combat  with  the  besieging 
melancholy  that  threatened  disaster,  and  Nancy  could 
meet  her  friend's  look  with  a  smile.  She  put  away  and 
turned  the  key  upon  her  futile  scribbling ;  no  more  of 
that.  Novel-writing  was  not  her  vocation  ;  she  must  seek 
again. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  she  made  ready  to  go  forth  on 
the  only  business  which  now  took  her  from  home.  It 
was  nearly  a  week  since  she  had  seen  her  boy. 

Opening  the  front  door,  she  came  unexpectedly  under 
two  pairs  of  eyes.  Face  to  face  with  her  stood  Samuel 
Barmby,  his  hand  raised  to  signal  at  the  knocker,  just 
withdrawn  from  him.  And  behind  Barmby  was  a  post- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  285 

man,  holding  a  letter,  which  in  another  moment  would 
have  dropped  into  the  box. 

Samuel  performed  the  civil  salute. 

"Ha.! — How  do  you  do,  Miss  Lord? — You  are  going 
out,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  out." 

She  replied  mechanically,  and  in  speaking  took  the 
letter  held  out  to  her.  A  glance  at  it  sent  all  her  blood 
rushing  upon  the  heart. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  particularly,"  said  Samuel.  "  Could 
I  call  again,  this  afternoon  ? " 

Nancy  gazed  at  him,  but  did  not  hear.  He  saw  the 
sudden  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and  thought  he  understood  it. 
As  she  stood  like  a  statue,  he  spoke  again. 

"  It  is  very  particular  business.  If  you  could  give  me 
an  appointment — 

"  Business  ? — Oh,  come  in,  if  you  like." 

She  drew  back  to  admit  him,  but  in  the  passage  stood 
looking  at  her  letter.  Barmby  was  perplexed  and  em- 
barrassed. 

"  You  had  rather  I  called  again  ? " 

"  Called  again  ?    Just  as  you  like." 

"  Oh,  then  I  will  stay,"  said  Samuel  bluntly.  For  he 
had  things  in  mind  which  disposed  him  to  resent  this 
flagrant  discourtesy. 

His  voice  awakened  Nancy.  She  opened  the  door  of 
the  dining-room. 

"  Will  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Barmby,  and  excuse  me  for  a 
few  minutes  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Don't  let  me  inconvenience  you,  Miss  Lord." 

At  another  time  Nancy  would  have  remarked  some- 
thing very  unusual  in  his  way  of  speaking,  especially  in 
the  utterance  of  her  name.  But  for  the  letter  in  her  hand 
she  must  have  noticed  with  uneasiness  a  certain  severity 
of  countenance,  which  had  taken  the  place  of  Barmby's 
wonted  smile.  As  it  was,  she  scarcely  realised  his  pres- 
ence ;  and,  on  closing  the  door  of  the  room  he  had  entered, 
she  forthwith  forgot  that  such  a  man  existed. 
19 


286  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Her  letter !  His  handwriting  at  last.  And  lie  was  in 
England. 

She  flew  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  tore  open  the  envelope. 
He  was  in  London ;  "  Great  College  Street,  S.W."  A 
short  letter,  soon  read. 

"  DEAREST  NANCY, — I  am  ashamed  to  write,  yet  write 
I  must.  All  your  letters  reached  me ;  there  was  110  rea- 
son for  my  silence  but  the  unwillingness  to  keep  sending 
bad  news.  I  have  still  nothing  good  to  tell  you,  but  here 
I  am  in  London  again,  and  you  must  know  of  it. 

"  When  I  posted  my  last  letter  to  you  from  New  York, 
I  meant  to  come  back  as  soon  as  I  could  get  money  enough 
to  pay  my  passage.  Since  then  I  have  gone  through  a 
miserable  time,  idle  for  the  most  part,  ill  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  occasionally  trying  to  write  something  that  editors 
would  pay  for.  But  after  all  I  had  to  borrow.  It  has 
brought  me  home  (steerage,  if  you  know  what  that  means), 
and  now  I  must  earn  more. 

"  If  we  were  to  meet,  I  might  be  able  to  say  something 
else.  I  can't  write  it.  Let  me  hear  from  you,  if  you  think 
me  worth  a  letter. — Yours  ever,  dear  girl,  L." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  stood  with  this  sheet  open, 
as  though  still  reading.  Her  face  was  void  of  emotion ; 
she  had  a  vacant  look,  cheerless,  but  with  no  more  decided 
significance. 

Then  she  remembered  that  Samuel  Barmby  was  wait- 
ing for  her  downstairs.  He  might  have  something  to  say 
which  really  concerned  her.  Better  see  him  at  once  and 
get  rid  of  him.  With  slow  step  she  descended  to  the  diii- 
ing-room.  The  letter,  folded  and  rolled,  she  carried  in 
her  hand. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Mr.  Barmby." 
"  Don't  mention  it.     Will  you  sit  down  ? " 
"Yes,  of  course."     She  spoke  abstractedly,  and  took  a 
seat  not  far  from  him.     "  I  was  just  going  out,  but — there's 
no  hurry." 


IN  TFIE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  287 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  begin.  Perhaps  I  had  better 
prepare  you  by  saying  that  I  have  received  very  strange 
information." 

His  air  was  magisterial ;  he  subdued  his  voice  to  a  note 
of  profound  solemnity. 

"  What  sort  of  information  ? "  asked  Nancy  vaguely, 
her  brows  knitted  in  a  look  rather  of  annoyance  than  ap- 
prehension. 

"Very  strange  indeed." 

"  You  have  said  that  already." 

Her  temper  was  failing.  She  felt  a  nervous  impulse  to 
behave  rudely,  to  declare  the  contempt  it  was  always  diffi- 
cult to  disguise  when  talking  with  Barmby. 

"  I  repeat  it,  because  you  seem  to  have  no  idea  what  I 
am  going  to  speak  of.  I  am  the  last  person  to  find  pleas- 
ure in  such  a  disagreeable  duty  as  is  now  laid  upon  me. 
In  that  respect,  I  believe  you  will  do  me  justice." 

"  Will  you  speak  plainly  ?  This  roundabout  talk  is 
intolerable." 

Samuel  drew  himself  up,  and  regarded  her  with  of- 
fended dignity.  He  had  promised  himself  no  small  satis- 
faction from  this  interview,  had  foreseen  its  salient  points. 
His  mere  aspect  would  be  enough  to  subdue  Nancy,  and 
when  he  began  to  speak  she  would  tremble  before  him. 
Such  a  moment  would  repay  him  for  the  enforced  hu- 
mility of  years.  Perhaps  she  would  weep  ;  she  might  even 
implore  him  to  be  merciful.  How  to  act  in  that  event  he 
had  quite  made  up  his  mind.  But  all  such  anticipations 
were  confused  by  Nancy's  singular  behaviour.  She 
seemed,  in  truth,  not  to  understand  the  hints  which  should 
have  overwhelmed  her. 

More  magisterial  than  ever,  he  began  to  speak  with 
slow  emphasis. 

"  Miss  Lord, — I  will  still  address  you  by  that  name, — 
though  for  a  very  long  time  I  have  regarded  you  as  a  per- 
son worthy  of  all  admiration,  and  have  sincerely  humbled 
myself  before  you,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  a  certain 
respect  is  due  to  me.  Even  though  I  find  that  you  have 


288  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

deceived  me  as  to  your  position,  the  old  feelings  are  still 
so  strong-  in  me  that  I  could  not  bear  to  give  you  needless 
pain.  Instead  of  announcing  to  rny  father,  and  to  other 
people,  the  strange  facts  which  I  have  learnt,  I  come  here 
as  a  friend, — I  speak  with  all  possible  forbearance, — I  do 
my  utmost  to  spare  you.  Am  I  not  justified  in  expecting 
at  least  courteous  treatment  ? " 

A  pause  of  awful  impressiveness.  The  listener,  fully 
conscious  at  length  of  the  situation  she  had  to  face,  fell 
into  a  calmer  mood.  All  was  over.  Suspense  and  the 
burden  of  falsehood  had  no  longer  to  be  endured.  Her 
part  now,  for  this  hour  at  all  events,  was  merely  to  stand 
by  whilst  Fate  unfolded  itself. 

"  Please  say  whatever  you  have  to  say,  Mr.  Barmby," 
she  replied  with  quiet  civility.  "  I  believe  your  intention 
was  good.  You  made  me  nervous,  that  was  all." 

"  Pray  forgive  me.  Perhaps  it  will  be  best  if  I  ask  you 
a  simple  question.  You  will  see  that  the  position  I  hold 
under  your  father's  will  leaves  me  no  choice  but  to  ask  it. 
Is  it  true  that  you  are  married  ? " 

"  I  will  answer  if  you  tell  me  how  you  came  to  think 
that  I  was  married." 

"  I  have  been  credibly  informed." 

"  By  whom  ? " 

"  You  must  forgive  me.     I  can't  tell  you  the  name." 

"  Then  I  can't  answer  your  question." 

Samuel  mused.  He  was  unwilling  to  break  a,  distinct 
promise. 

u No  doubt,"  said  Nancy,  "you  have  undertaken  not  to 
mention  the  person," 

"I  have." 

"  If  it  is  some  one  who  used  to  be  a  friend  of  mine,  you 
needn't  have  any  scruples.  She  as  good  as  told  me  what 
she  meant  to  do.  Of  course  it  is  Miss  Morgan  ? " 

"  As  you  have  yourself  spoken  the  name — 

"  Very  well.  She  isn't  in  her  senses,  and  I  wonder  she 
has  kept  the  secret  so  long." 

"  You  admit  the  truth  of  what  she  has  told  me  ? " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  289 

"  Yes.     I  am  married." 

She  make  the  avowal  in  a  tone  very  like  that  in  which, 
to  Beatrice  French,  she  had  affirmed  the  contrary. 

"  And  your  true  name  is  Mrs.  Tarrant  ? " 

"  That  is  my  name." 

The  crudely  masculine  in  Barmby  prompted  one  more 
question,  but  some  other  motive  checked  him.  He  let  his 
eyes  wander  slowly  about  the  room.  Even  yet  there  was 
a  chance  of  playing  off  certain  effects  which  he  had  re- 
hearsed with  gusto. 

"Can  you  imagine," — his  voice  shook  a  little,— how 
much  I  suffer  in  hearing  you  say  this  ? " 

"  If  you  mean  that  you  still  had  the  hopes  expressed  in 
your  letter  some  time  ago,  I  can  only  say,  in  my  defence, 
that  I  gave  you  an  honest  answer." 

"  Yes.  You  said  you  could  never  marry  me.  But  of 
course  I  couldn't  understand  it  in  this  sense.  It  is  a  blow. 
I  find  it  very  hard  to  bear." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  as  if  ashamed  of  the 
emotion  he  could  not  command.  Nancy,  too  much  occu- 
pied with  her  own  troubles  to  ask  or  care  whether  his 
distress  was  genuine,  laid  Tarrant's  letter  upon  a  side-table, 
and  began  to  draw  off  her  gloves.  Then  she  unbuttoned 
her  jacket.  These  out-of-door  garments  oppressed  her. 
Samuel  turned  his  head  and  came  slowly  back. 

"  There  are  things  that  might  be  said,  but  I  will  not  say 
them.  Most  men  in  my  position  would  yield  to  the  temp- 
tation of  revenge.  But  for  many  years  I  have  kept  in  view 
a  moral  ideal,  and  now  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  conquer- 
ing my  lower  self.  You  shall  not  hear  one  word  of  re- 
proach from  my  lips." 

He  waited  for  the  reply,  the  expected  murmur  of  grati- 
tude. Nancy  said  nothing. 

"  Mrs.  Tarrant,"— he  stood  before  her,—"  what  do  you 
suppose  must  be  the  result  of  this  ? " 

"  There  can  only  be  one." 

"  You  mean  the  ruin  of  your  prospects.  But  do  you 
forget  that  all  the  money  you  have  received  since  Mr. 


290  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Lord's  death  has  been  obtained  by  false  pretences  ?  Are 
you  not  aware  that  this  is  a  criminal  offence  ? " 

Nancy  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  steadily  at  him. 

"  Then  I  must  bear  the  punishment." 

For  a  minute  Barmby  enjoyed  her  suffering-.  Of  his 
foreseen  effects,  this  one  had  come  nearest  to  succeeding. 
But  he  was  not  satisfied ;  he  hoped  she  would  beseech  his 
clemency. 

"The  punishment  might  be  very  serious.  I  really 
can't  say  what  view  my  father  may  take  of  this  decep- 
tion." 

"  Is  there  any  use  in  talking  about  it  ?  I  am  penniless 
— that's  all  you  have  to  tell  me.  What  else  I  have  to 
bear,  I  shall  know  soon  enough." 

"  One  thing  I  must  ask.  Isn't  your  husband  in  a  posi- 
tion to  support  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't  answer  that.  Please  to  say  nothing  about  my 
husband." 

Barmby  caught  at  hope.  It  might  be  true,  as  Jessica 
Morgan  believed,  that  Nancy  was  forsaken.  The  man 
Tarrant  might  be  wealthy  enough  to  disregard  her  pros- 
pects. In  that  case  an  assiduous  lover,  one  who,  by  the 
exercise  of  a  prudent  geneerosity,  had  obtained  power  over 
the  girl,  could  yet  hope  for  reward.  Samuel  had  as  little 
of  the  villain  in  his  composition  as  any  Camber  well  house- 
holder. He  cherished  no  dark  designs.  But,  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind,  he  was  in  love  with  Nancy,  and  even 
the  long  pursuit  of  a  lofty  ideal  does  not  render  a  man 
proof  against  the  elementary  forces  of  human  nature. 

"We  will  suppose  then,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  cheer- 
fulness, "  that  you  have  nothing  whatever  to  depend  upon 
but  your  father's  will.  What  is  before  you  ?  How  can 
you  live  ? " 

"  That  is  my  own  affair !  " 

It  was  not  said  offensively,  but  in  a  tone  of  bitter  resig- 
nation. Barmby  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  and  leaned 
forward. 

"Do  you  think  for  one  moment," — his  voice  was  softly 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  291 

melodious, — "  that  I — I  who  have  loved  you  for  years — 
could  let  you  suffer  for  want  of  money  ? " 

He  had  not  skill  to  read  her  countenance.  Trouble  he 
discerned,  and  shame ;  but  the  half-veiled  eyes,  the  quiv- 
ering nostril,  the  hard,  cold  lips,  spoke  a  language  beyond 
Samuel's  interpretation.  Even  had  he  known  of  the  out- 
rages previously  inflicted  upon  her  pride,  and  that  this 
new  attack  came  at  a  moment  when  her  courage  was  baf- 
fled, her  heart  cruelly  wounded,  he  would  just  as  little 
have  comprehended  the  spirit  which  now  kept  her  mute. 

He  imagined  her  overcome  by  his  generosity.  An- 
other of  his  great  effects  had  come  off  with  tolerable  suc- 
cess. 

"Put  your  mind  at  rest,"  he  pursued  melliiluously. 
"  You  shall  suffer  no  hardships.  I  answer  for  it." 

Still  mute,  and  her  head  bowed  low.  Such  is  the  power 
of  nobility  displayed  before  an  erring  soul ! 

"  You  have  never  done  me  justice.  Confess  that  you 
haven't ! " 

To  this  remarkable  appeal  Nancy  perforce  replied : 

"I  never  thought  ill  of  you." 

When  she  had  spoken,  colour  came  into  her  cheeks. 
Observing  it,  Samuel  was  strangely  moved.  Had  he  im- 
pressed her  even  more  profoundly  than  he  hoped  to  do  ? 
Jessica  Morgan's  undisguised  subjugation  had  nattered 
him  into  credulity  respecting  his  influence  over  the  female 
mind. 

"  But  you  didn't  think  me  capable  of— of  anything  ex- 
traordinary ? " 

Even  in  her  torment,  Nancy  marvelled  at  this  revela- 
tion of  fatuity.  She  did  not  understand  the  pranks  of  such 
a  mind  as  Barmby's  when  its  balance  is  disturbed  by  ex- 
citing circumstance. 

"  What  are  you  offering  me  ? "  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  How  could  I  take  money  from  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  you  should.  Your  secret  has  been 
betrayed  to  me.  Suppose  I  refuse  to  know  anything  about 
it,  and  leave  things  as  they  were  ? " 


292  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Nancy  kept  her  eyes  down. 

"  Suppose  I  say  :  Duty  bids  me  injure  this  woman  who 
has  injured  me ;  but  no,  I  will  not !  Suppose  I  say :  I 
can  make  her  regret  bitterly  that  she  married  that  other 
man ;  but  no,  I  will  not !  Suppose,  instead  of  making 
your  secret  known,  I  do  my  utmost  to  guard  it !  What 
would  be  your  opinion  of  this  behaviour  ? " 

"  I  should  think  it  was  kindly  meant,  but  useless." 

"Useless?    Why?" 

"  Because  it  isn't  in  your  power  to  guard  the  secret. 
Jessica  Morgan  won't  leave  her  work  half  done." 

"  If  that's  all,  I  say  again  that  you  can  put  your  mind 
at  rest.  I  answer  for  Miss  Morgan.  With  her  my  will 
is  law." 

Samuel  smiled.  A  smile  ineffable.  The  smile  of  a 
suburban  deity. 

"  Why  should  you  take  any  trouble  about  me  ? "  said 
Nancy.  "  I  can  do  nothing  for  you  in  return." 

"  You  can." 

She  looked  anxiously  at  him,  for  his  voice  sounded 
ominous. 

"What?" 

"You  can  acknowledge  that  you  never  did  me  jus- 
tice." 

"It's  true  that  I  didn't,"  she  answered  languidly, 
speaking  as  though  the  concession  mattered  little. 

Barmby  brightened.  His  hands  were  upon  his  knees ; 
he  raised  his  chin,  and  smiled  at  vacancy. 

"  You  thought  me  unworthy  of  you.  You  can  confess 
to  me  that  you  were  mistaken." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  as  I  do  now,"  fell  from  the  expres- 
sionless lips. 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that !  Well,  then,  your  anxiety 
is  at  an  end.  You  are  not  in  the  hands  of  a  mercenary 
enemy,  but  of  a  man  whose  principles  forbid  him  to  do 
anything  ignoble,  who  has  an  ideal  of  life,  the  result  of 
much  study  and  thought.  You  have  never  heard  me 
speak  about  religion,  but  you  would  be  gravely  mistaken 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  293 

if  you  thought  I  had  no  religious  convictions.  Some  day 
I  shall  treat  that  subject  before  our  Society,  and  it  is 
probable  that  my  views  will  give  rise  to  a  good  deal  of 
discussion.  I  have  formed  a  religion  for  myself ;  when  I 
write  my  essay,  I  think  I  shall  call  it  '  The  Religion  of  a 
Man  of  Business.'  One  of  the  great  evils  of  the  day  is  the 
vulgar  supposition  that  commerce  has  nothing  to  do  with 
religious  faith.  I  shall  show  how  utterly  wrong  that  is. 
It  would  take  too  long  to  explain  to  you  my  mature  views 
of  Christianity.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  recognise  any  of 
the  ordinary  dogmas ;  I  think  I  have  progressed  beyond 
them.  However,  we  shall  have  many  opportunities  of 
talking  about  these  things." 

Nancy  uttered  a  mere  "Yes."  She  was  looking  at 
Tarrant's  letter  on  the  side-table,  and  wishing  to  be  alone 
that  she  might  read  it  again. 

"  In  the  meantime,"  Samuel  pursued,  "  whatever  diffi- 
culty arises,  confide  it  to  me.  Probably  you  will  wish  to 
tell  me  more  before  long ;  you  know  that  I  am  not  un- 
worthy to  be  your  adviser.  And  so  let  us  shake  hands,  in 
sign  of  genuine  friendship." 

Nancy  gave  her  fingers,  which  felt  very  cold  upon 
Barmby's  warm,  moist  palm. 

"  This  conversation  has  been  trying  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  but  relief  of  mind  will  soon  follow.  If  anything  occurs 
to  me  that  may  help  to  soothe  you,  I  will  write." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  At  the  beginning  of  our  interview  you  didn't  think  it 
would  end  like  this  ? " 

There  was  something  of  the  boy  in  Samuel,  perhaps 
the  wholesomest  part  of  him.  Having  manifested  his  ad- 
mirable qualities,  he  felt  a  light-hearted  pleasure  in  asking 
for  renewed  assurance  of  the  good  opinion  he  had  earned. 

"  I  hardly  cared,"  said  Nancy,  as  she  rose  with  a  sigh 
of  weariness. 

"  But  you  have  got  over  that.  You  will  be  quite  cheer- 
ful now  ? " 

"  In  time,  no  doubt." 


29-i  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  shall  call  again — let  us  say  on  Wednesday  evening. 
By  that  time  I  shall  be  able  to  put  you  entirely  at  ease 
with  regard  to  Miss  Morgan."' 

Nancy  made  no  reply.  In  shaking  hands,  she  regarded 
the  radiant  Samuel  with  a  dreamy  interest ;  and  when  he 
had  left  her,  she  still  gazed  for  a  few  moments  at  the  door. 


IV 

THE  habit  of  confidence  prompted  Nancy  to  seek  Mary 
Woodruff,  and  show  her  the  long-expected  letter.  But  for 
Barmby's  visit  she  would  have  done  so.  As  it  was,  her 
mind  sullenly  resisted  the  natural  impulse.  Forlorn  mis- 
ery, intensified  by  successive  humiliations,  whereof  the 
latest  was  the  bitterest,  hardened  her  even  against  the 
one,  the  indubitable  friend,  to  whom  she  had  never  looked 
in  vain  for  help  and  solace.  Of  course  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  let  Mary  know  with  what  heart-breaking  coldness 
Tarrant  had  communicated  the  fact  of  his  return ;  but  she 
preferred  to  keep  silence  altogether.  Having  sunk  so  low 
as  to  accept,  with  semblance  of  gratitude,  pompous  favours, 
dishonouring  connivance,  at  the  hands  of  Samuel  Barmby, 
she  would  now  stand  alone  in  her  uttermost  degradation. 
Happen  what  might,  she  would  act  and  suffer  in  solitude. 

Something  she  had  in  mind  to  do  which  Mary,  if  told 
of  it,  would  regard  with  disapproval.  Mary  was  not  a 
deserted  and  insulted  wife ;  she  could  reason  and  counsel 
with  the  calmness  of  one  who  sympathised,  but  had  noth- 
ing worse  to  endure.  Even  Mary's  sympathy  was  neces- 
sarily imperfect,  since  she  knew  not,  and  should  never 
know,  what  had  passed  in  the  crucial  interviews  with 
Beatrice  French,  with  Jessica  Morgan,  and  with  Samuel 
Barmby.  Bent  on  indulging  her  passionate  sense  of  in- 
jury, hungering  for  a  taste  of  revenge,  however  poor, 
Nancy  executed  with  brief  delay  a  project  which  had 
come  into  her  head  during  the  hour  of  torture  just 
elapsed. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  295 

She  took  a  sheet  of  notepaper,  and  upon  it  wrote  half- 
a-dozen  lines,  thus  : 

"  As  your  reward  for  marrying  me  is  still  a  long  way 
off,  and  as  you  tell  me  that  you  are  in  want,  I  send  you  as 
much  as  I  can  spare  at  present.  Next  month  you  shall 
hear  from  me  again." 

Within  the  paper  she  folded  a  five-pound  note,  and 
placed  both  in  an  envelope,  which  she  addressed  to  Lionel 
Tarrant,  Esq.,  at  his  lodgings  in  Westminster.  Having 
posted  this  at  the  first  pillar-box,  she  walked  on. 

Her  only  object  was  to  combat  mental  anguish  by 
bodily  exercise,  to  distract,  if  possible,  the  thoughts  which 
hammered  upon  her  brain  by  moving  amid  the  life  of  the 
streets.  In  Camberwell  Road  she  passed  the  place  of  busi- 
ness inscribed  with  the  names  "  Lord  and  Barmby " ;  it 
made  her  think,  not  of  the  man  who,  from  being  an  ob- 
ject of  her  good-natured  contempt,  was  now  become  a 
hated  enemy,  but  of  her  father,  and  she  mourned  for  him 
with  profouiider  feeling  than  when  her  tears  flowed  over 
his  new-made  grave.  But  for  headstrong  folly,  incredible 
in  the  retrospect,  that  father  would  have  been  her  dear 
and  honoured  companion,  her  friend  in  every  best  sense 
of  the  word,  her  guide  and  protector.  Many  and  many  a 
time  had  he  invited  her  affection,  her  trust.  For  long 
years  it  was  in  her  power  to  make  him  happy,  and,  in 
doing  so,  to  enrich  her  own  life,  to  discipline  her  mind  as 
no  study  of  books,  even  had  it  been  genuine,  ever  could. 
Oh,  to  have  the  time  back  again — the  despised  privilege — 
the  thwarted,  embittered  love !  She  was  beginning  to 
understand  her  father,  to  surmise  with  mature  intelli- 
gence the  causes  of  his  seeming  harshness.  To  her  own 
boy,  when  he  was  old  enough,  she  would  talk  of  him  and 
praise  him.  Perhaps,  even  thus  late,  his  spirit  of  stem 
truthfulness  might  bear  fruit  in  her  life  and  in  her 
son's. 

The  tender  memory  and  pure  resolve  did  not  long  pos- 
sess her.  They  soon  yielded  before  the  potency  of  present 
evil,  and  for  an  hour  or  more  she  walked  along  the  sordid 


296  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

highway,  nursing  passions  which  struck  their  venom  into 
her  heart. 

It  was  one  of  those  cold,  dry,  clouded  evenings  of 
autumn,  when  London  streets  affect  the  imagination  with 
a  peculiar  suggestiveness.  New-lit  lamps,  sickly  yellow 
under  the  dying  day,  stretch  in  immense  vistas,  unob- 
scured  by  fog,  but  exhibit  no  detail  of  the  track  they  will 
presently  illumine ;  one  by  one  the  shop-fronts  grow 
radiant  on  deepening  gloom,  and  show  in  silhouette  the 
figures  numberless  that  are  hurrying  past.  By  accentua- 
ting a  pause  between  the  life  of  daytime  and  that  which 
will  begin  after  dark,  this  grey  hour  excites  to  an  un- 
wonted perception  of  the  city's  vastness  and  of  its  multi- 
farious labour ;  melancholy,  yet  not  dismal,  the  brooding 
twilight  seems  to  betoken  Nature's  compassion  for  myriad 
mortals  exiled  from  her  beauty  and  her  solace.  Noises 
far  and  near  blend  into  a  muffled  murmur,  sound's  equiva- 
lent of  the  impression  received  by  the  eye ;  it  seems  to 
utter  the  weariness  of  unending  ineffectual  toil. 

Nancy  had  now  walked  as  far  as  Newington,  a  district 
unfamiliar  to  her,  and  repulsive.  By  the  Elephant  and 
Castle  she  stood  watching  the  tumultuous  traffic  which 
whirls  and  roars  at  this  confluence  of  six  highways ;  she 
had  neither  a  mind  to  go  on,  nor  yet  to  return.  The  con- 
ductor of  an  omnibus  close  at  hand  kept  bellowing  "  Lon- 
don Bridge ! "  and  her  thoughts  wandered  to  that  day  of 
meeting  with  Luckworth  Crewe,  when  he  took  her  up  the 
Monument.  She  had  never  felt  more  than  an  idle  interest 
in  Crewe,  and  whenever  she  remembered  him  nowadays, 
it  was  only  to  reflect  with  bitterness  that  he  doubtless  knew 
a  part  of  her  secret, — the  part  that  was  known  to  Beatrice 
French, — and  on  that  account  had  ceased  to  urge  his  suit ; 
yet  at  this  moment  she  wished  that  she  had  pledged  herself 
to  him  in  good  faith.  His  behaviour  argued  the  steadfast 
devotion  of  an  honest  man,  however  lacking  in  refine- 
ment. Their  long  engagement  would  have  been  bright- 
ened with  many  hopes;  in  the  end  she  might  have 
learned  to  love  him,  and  prosperity  would  have  opened 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  297 

to  her  a  world  of  satisfactions,  for  which,  she  could  no 
longer  hope. 

It  grew  cold.  She  allowed  the  movements  of  a  group 
of  people  to  direct  her  steps,  and  went  eastward  along-  New 
Kent  Road.  But  when  the  shops  were  past,  and  only  a 
dreary  prospect  of  featureless  dwellings  lay  before  her, 
she  felt  her  heart  sink,  and  paused  in  vacillating  wretch- 
edness. 

From  a  house  near  by  sounded  a  piano ;  a  foolish  jin- 
gle, but  it  smote  her  with  a  longing  for  companionship, 
for  friendly,  cheerful  talk.  And  then  of  a  sudden  she  de- 
termined that  this  life  of  intolerable  isolation  should  come 
to  an  end.  Her  efforts  to  find  employment  that  would 
bring  her  among  people  had  failed  simply  because  she 
applied  to  strangers,  who  knew  nothing  of  her  capabili- 
ties, and  cared  nothing  for  her  needs.  But  a  way  offered 
itself  if  she  could  overcome  the  poor  lingering  vestiges  of 
pride  and  shame  which  hitherto  had  seemed  to  render  it 
impossible.  In  this  hour  her  desolate  spirit  rejected 
everything  but  the  thought  of  relief  to  be  found  in 
new  occupation,  fresh  society.  She  had  endured  to  the 
limit  of  strength.  Under  the  falling  night,  before 
the  grey  vision  of  a  city  which,  by  its  alien  business 
and  pleasure,  made  her  a  mere  outcast,  she  all  at  once 
found  hope  in  a  resource  which  till  now  had  signified 
despair. 

Summoning  the  first  empty  cab,  she  gave  an  address 
known  to  her  only  by  hearsay,  that  of  the  South  London 
Fashionable  Dress  Supply  Association,  and  was  driven 
thither  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  shop,  with  its 
windows  cunningly  laid  out  to  allure  the  female  eye, 
spread  a  brilliant  frontage  between  two  much  duller 
places  of  business ;  at  the  doorway  stood  a  commission- 
aire, distributing  some  newly  printed  advertisements  to 
the  persons  who  entered,  or  who  paused  in  passing. 
Nancy  accepted  a  paper  without  thinking  about  it,  and 
went  through  the  swing  doors  held  open  for  her  by  a 
stripling  in  buttons  ;  she  approached  a  young  woman  at 


298  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  nearest  counter,  and  in  a  low  voice  asked  whether 
Miss  French  was  on  the  premises. 

"  I'm  not  sure,  madam.     I  will  inquire  at  once." 

"  She  calls  me  '  madam,'  "  said  Nancy  to  herself  whilst 
waiting1.-  "So  do  shopkeepers  generally.  I  suppose  I 
look  old." 

The  young  person  (she  honeyed  a  Cockney  twang) 
speedily  came  back  to  report  that  Miss  French  had  left 
about  half-an-hour  ago,  and  was  not  likely  to  return. 

"  Can  you  give  me  her  private  address  ? " 

Not  having  seen  Miss  French  since  the  latter's  unwel- 
come call  in  Grove  Lane,  she  only  knew  that  Beatrice  had 
left  De  Crespigny  Park  to  inhabit  a  flat  somewhere  or 
other. 

"  I  wish  to  see  her  particularly,  on  business." 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,  madam." 

On  returning,  the  young  person  requested  Nancy  to 
follow  her  up  the  shop,  and  led  into  a  glass-partitioned 
office,  where,  at  a  table  covered  with  fashion-plates,  sat  a 
middle-aged  man,  with  a  bald  head  of  peculiar  lustre.  He 
rose  and  bowed ;  Nancy  repeated  her  request. 

"  Could  I  despatch  a  message  for  you,  madam  ? " 

"  My  business  is  private." 

The  bald-headed  man  coughed  urbanely,  and  begged  to 
know  her  name. 

"  Miss  Lord — of  Grove  Lane." 

Immediately  his  countenance  changed  from  deprecat- 
ing solemnity  to  a  broad  smile  of  recognition. 

"  Miss  Lord !  Oh,  to  be  sure  ;  I  will  give  you  the  ad- 
dress at  once.  Pray  pardon  my  questions ;  we  have  to  be 
so  very  careful.  So  many  people  desire  private  interviews 
with  Miss  French.  I  will  jot  down  the  address." 

He  did  so  on  the  back  of  an  advertisement,  and  added 
verbal  directions.  Nancy  hurried  away. 

Another  cab  conveyed  her  to  Brixton,  and  set  her  down 
before  a  block  of  recently  built  flats.  She  ascended  to  the 
second  floor,  pressed  the  button  of  a  bell,  and  was  speedily 
confronted  by  a  girl  of  the  natty  parlour-maid  species. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  299 

This  time  she  began  by  giving  her  name,  and  had  only 
a  moment  to  wait  before  she  was  admitted  to  a  small 
drawing-room,  furnished  with  semblance  of  luxury.  A 
glowing  fire  and  the  light  of  an  amber-shaded  lamp 
showed  as  much  fashionable  upholstery  and  bric-a-brac  as 
could  be  squeezed  into  the  narrow  space.  Something  else 
was  perceptible  which  might  perhaps  have  been  dispensed 
with  ;  to  wit,  the  odour  of  a  very  savoury  meal,  a  meal  in 
which  fried  onions  had  no  insignificant  part.  But  before 
the  visitor  could  comment  to  herself  upon  this  disadvan- 
tage attaching  to  flats,  Beatrice  joined  her. 

"  I  could  hardly  believe  it !  So  you  have  really  looked 
me  up  ?  Awfully  jolly  of  you !  I'm  quite  alone ;  we'll 
have  a  bit  of  dinner  together." 

Miss  French  was  in  her  most  expansive  mood.  She 
understood  the  call  as  one  of  simple  friendliness. 

"  I  wasn't  sure  that  you  knew  the  address.  Got  it  at 
the  shop  ?  They  don't  go  telling  everybody,  I  hope — 

"Some  one  there  seemed  to  know  my  name,"  said 
Nancy,  whom  the  warmth  and  light  and  cheery  welcome 
encouraged  in  the  step  she  had  taken.  And  she  ex- 
plained. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Glatworthy — rum  old  cove,  when  you  get  to 
know  him.  Yes,  yes ;  no  doubt  he  has  heard  me  speak  of 
you — in  a  general  way,  you  know.  Come  into  my  snooze- 
corner,  and  take  your  things  off." 

The  snooze-corner,  commonly  called  a  bedroom,  lacked 
one  detail  of  comfort — pure  air.  The  odour  of  dinner 
blending  with  toilet  perfumes  made  an  atmosphere  de- 
cidedly oppressive.  Beatrice  remarked  on  the  small- 
ness  of  the  chamber,  adding  archly,  "But  I  sleep 
single." 

"  What's  your  brother  doing  ? "  she  asked,  while  help- 
ing to  remove  Nancy's  jacket.  "  I  passed  him  in  Oxford 
Street  the  other  day,  and  he  either  didn't  see  me,  or  didn't 
want  to.  Thought  he  looked  rather  dissipated." 

"  I  know  very  little  about  him,"  answered  the  visitor, 
who  spoke  and  acted  without  reflection,  conscious  chiefly 


300  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

at  this  moment  of  faintness  induced  by  fatigue  and 
hunger. 

"Fanny's  in  Paris,"  pursued  Miss  French.  "Writes 
as  if  she  was  amusing  herself.  I  think  I  shall  run  over 
and  have  a  look  at  her.  Seen  Ada  ?  She's  been  playing 
the  fool  as  usual.  Found  out  that  Arthur  had  taken  the 
kid  to  his  sister's  at  Canterbury ;  went  down  and  made  a 
deuce  of  a  kick-up ;  they  had  to  chuck  her  out  of  the 
house.  Of  course  she  cares  no  more  about  the  child  than 
I  do ;  it's  only  to  spite  her  husband.  She's  going  to  law 
with  him,  she  says.  She  won't  leave  the  house  in  De 
Crespigny  Park,  and  she's  running  up  bills — you  bet ! " 

Nancy  tried  to  laugh.  The  effort,  and  its  semi-success, 
indicated  surrender  to  her  companion's  spirit  rather  than 
any  attention  to  the  subject  spoken  of. 

They  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  but  had  not  time 
to  begin  a  conversation  before  the  servant  summoned 
them  to  dinner.  A  very  satisfying  meal  it  proved ;  not 
badly  cooked,  as  cooking  is  understood  in  Brixton,  and 
served  with  more  of  ceremony  than  the  guest  had  ex- 
pected. Fried  scallops,  rump  steak  smothered  in  onions, 
an  apple  tart,  and  ^ery  sound  Stilton  cheese.  Such  fare 
testified  to  the  virile  qualities  of  Beatrice's  mind ;  she  was 
above  the  feminine  folly  of  neglecting  honest  victuals. 
Moreover,  there  appeared  two  wines,  sherry  and  claret. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  this  kind  of  thing  ? "  said  the  hostess 
finally,  reaching  a  box  of  cigarettes. 

"  I  ? — Of  course  not,"  Nancy  replied,  with  a  laugh. 

"It's  expected  of  a  sensible  woman  nowadays.  I've 
got  to  like  it.  Better  try  ;  no  need  to  make  yourself  un- 
comfortable. Just  keep  the  smoke  in  your  mouth  for 
half-a-miiiute,  and  blow  it  out  prettily.  I  buy  these  in 
the  Haymarket ;  special  brand  for  women." 

"  And  you  dine  like  this,  by  yourself,  every  day  ? " 

"  Like  this,  but  not  always  alone.  Some  one  or  other 
drops  in.  Luckworth  Ore  we  was  here  yesterday." 

Speaking,  she  watched  Nancy,  who  bore  the  regard 
with  carelessness,  and  replied  lightly : 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  301 

"  It's  an  independent  sort  of  life,  at  all  events." 

"Just  the  kind  of  life  that  suits  me.  I'm  my  own 
mistress." 

There  was  a  suggested  allusion  in  the  sly  tone  of  the 
last  phrase ;  but  Nancy,  thinking-  her  own  thoughts,  did 
not  perceive  it.  As  the  servant  had  left  them  alone,  they 
could  now  talk  freely.  Beatrice,  by  her  frequent  glance 
of  curiosity,  seemed  to  await  some  explanation  of  a  visit  so 
unlooked-for. 

"  How  are  things  going  with  you  ? "  she  asked  at  length, 
tapping  the  ash  of  her  cigarette  over  a  plate. 

"  I  want  something  to  do,"  was  the  blunt  reply. 

"  Too  much  alone— isn't  that  it  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Just  what  I  thought.    You  don't  see  him  often  ? " 

Nancy  had  ceased  her  pretence  of  smoking,  and  leaned 
back.  A  flush  on  her  face,  and  something  unwonted  in 
the  expression  of  her  eyes, — something  like  a  smile,  yet 
touched  with  apathy, — told  of  physical  influences  which 
assisted  her  resolve  to  have  done  with  scruple  and  delicacy. 
She  handled  her  wine-glass,  which  was  half  full,  and,  be- 
fore answering,  raised  it  to  her  lips. 

"  No,  I  don't  see  him  often." 

"  Well,  I  told  you  to  come  to  me  if  I  could  be  any  use. 
What's  your  idea  ? " 

"  Do  you  know  of  anything  I  could  do  ?  It  isn't  so 
much  to  earn  money,  as  to — to  be  occupied,  and  escape 
from  loneliness.  But  I  must  have  two  afternoons  in  the 
week  to  myself." 

Beatrice  nodded  and  smiled. 

"No,— not  for  that,"  Nancy  added  hastily.  "To  see 
my  boy." 

The  other  appeared  to  accept  this  correction. 

"  All  right.  I  think  I  can  find  you  something.  We're 
opening  a  branch."  She  mentioned  the  locality.  "  There'll 
be  a  club-room,  like  at  headquarters,  and  we  shall  want 
some  one  ladylike  to  sit  there  and  answer  questions.  You 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  see  any  one  that  knows  you,  and 
20 


302  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

you'd  get  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  it.  Hours  from  ten  to 
five,  but  Saturday  afternoon  off,  and  Wednesday  after 
three,  if  that  would  do  ? " 

"Yes,  that  would  do  very  well.  Any  payment,  at 
first?" 

"  Oh,  we  wouldn't  be  so  mean  as  all  that.  Say  ten 
shillings  a  week  till  Christmas,  and  afterwards  we  could 
see  " — she  laughed — "  whether  you're  worth  more." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  fashions." 

u  You  can  learn  all  you  need  to  know  in  an  hour.  It's 
the  ladylike  appearance  and  talk  more  than  anything 
else." 

Nancy  sipped  again  from  her  wine-glass. 

"  When  could  I  begin  ? " 

"  The  place  '11  be  ready  on  Monday  week.  Next  week 
you  might  put  in  a  few  hours  with  us.  Just  sit  and  watch 
and  listen,  that's  all ;  to  get  the  hang  of  the  thing." 

"  Thank  you  for  being  so  ready  to  help  me." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  haven't  done  yet.  There's  a  con- 
dition. If  I  fix  up  this  job  for  you,  will  you  tell  me  some- 
thing I  want  to  kijow  ? " 

Nancy  turned  ker  eyes  apprehensively. 

"  You  can  guess  what  it  is.  I  quite  believe  what  you 
told  me  some  time  ago,  but  I  shan't  feel  quite  easy  until 
I  know- 
She  finished  the  sentence  with  a  look.  Nancy's  eyes 
fell. 

"Curiosity,  nothing  else,"  added  the  other.  "Just  to 
make  quite  sure  it  isn't  anybody  I've  thought  of." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Leaning  forward  upon  the 
table,  Nancy  turned  her  wine-glass  about  and  about.  She 
now  had  a  very  high  colour,  and  breathed  quickly. 

"  Is  it  off,  then  ? "  said  Beatrice,  in  an  indifferent 
tone. 

Thereupon  Nancy  disclosed  the  name  of  her  husband — 
her  lover,  as  Miss  French  thought  him.  Plied  with  further 
questions,  she  told  where  he  was  living,  but  gave  no  ac- 
count of  the  circumstances  that  had  estranged  them. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  303 

Abundantly  satisfied,  Beatrice  grew  almost  affectionate, 
and  talked  merrily. 

Nancy  wished  to  ask  whether  Luckworth  Crewe  had 
any  knowledge  of  her  position.  It  was  long  before  her 
lips  could  utter  the  words,  but  at  length  they  were  spoken. 
And  Beatrice  assured  her  that  Crewe,  good  silly  fellow, 
did  not  even  suspect  the  truth. 


"FOR  a  man,"  said  Tarrant,  "who  can  pay  no  more 
than  twelve  and  sixpence  a  week,  it's  the  best  accommoda- 
tion to  be  found  in  London.  There's  an  air  of  civilisation 
about  the  house.  Look  ;  a  bath,  and  a  little  book-case,  and 
an  easy-chair  such  as  can  be  used  by  a  man  who  respects 
himself.  You  feel  you  are  among  people  who  tub  o' 
mornings  and  know  the  meaning  of  leisure.  Then  the 
view ! " 

He  was  talking  to  his  friend  Harvey  Munden,  the 
journalist.  The  room  in  which  they  stood  might  with 
advantage  have  been  larger,  but  as  a  bedchamber  it  served 
well  enough,  and  only  the  poverty  of  its  occupant,  who 
put  it  to  the  additional  use  of  sitting-room  and  study,  made 
the  lack  of  space  particularly  noticeable.  The  window 
afforded  a  prospect  pleasant  enough  to  eyes  such  as  theirs. 
Above  the  lower  -houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way 
appeared  tall  trees,  in  the  sere  garb  of  later  autumn,  grow- 
ing by  old  Westminster  School ;  and  beyond  them,  grey  in 
twilight,  rose  the  towers  of  the  Abbey.  From  this  point  of 
view  no  vicinage  of  modern  brickwork  spoilt  their  charm  ; 
the  time-worn  monitors  stood  alone  against  a  sky  of  ruddy 
smoke-drift  and  purple  cloud. 

The  year  had  made  him,  in  aspect,  more  than  a  twelve- 
month older.  His  lounging  attitude,  the  spirit  of  his  talk, 
showed  that  he  was  unchanged  in  bodily  and  mental 
habits  ;  but  certain  lines  new -graven  upon  his  visage,  and 
an  austerity  that  had  taken  the  place  of  youthful  self- 


304:  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

consciousness,  signified  a  more  than  normal  progress  in 
experience. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Munden  slyly,  "  that  you  have 
brought  back  a  trans- Atlantic  accent  ? " 

"  Accent  ?    The  devil !    I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Intonation,  at  all  events." 

Tarrant  professed  a  serious  annoyance. 

"  If  that's  true,  I'll  go  and  live  for  a  month  in  Lim- 
erick." 

"  It  would  be  cheaper  to  join  a  Socialist  club  in  the 
East  End.  But  just  tell  me  how  you  stand.  How  long 
can  you  hold  out  in  these  aristocratic  lodgings  ? " 

"  Till  Christmas.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  how  I've  got  the 
money,  so  don't  ask.  I  reached  London  with  empty 
pockets.  And  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  I  have  learnt,  Mun- 
den. There's  no  villainy,  no  scoundrelism,  no  baseness 
conceivable,  that  isn't  excused  by  want  of  money.  I  un- 
derstand the  whole  '  social  question.'  The  man  who  has 
never  felt  the  perspiration  come  out  on  his  forehead  in 
asking  himself  how  he  is  going  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  has  no  right  to  an  opinion  on  the  greatest  ques- 
tion of  the  day."  * 

"  What  particular  scoundrelism  or  baseness  have  you 
committed  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

Tarrant  averted  his  eyes. 

"  I  said  I  could  understand  such  things." 

"  One  sees  that  you  have  been  breathed  upon  by  de- 
mocracy." 

"  I  loathe  the  word  and  the  thing  even  more  than  I 
did,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal." 

"  Be  it  so.    You  say  you  are  going  to  work  ? " 

"Yes,  I  have  come  back  to  work.  Even  now,  it's 
difficult  to  realise  that  I  must  work  or  starve.  I  under- 
stand how  fellows  who  have  unexpectedly  lost  their 
income  go  through  life  sponging  on  relatives  and 
friends.  I  understand  how  an  educated  man  goes  sink- 
ing through  all  the  social  grades,  down  to  the  common 
lodging-house  and  the  infirmary.  And  I  honestly  be- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  305 

lieve  there's  only  one  thing  that  saves  me  from  doing 
likewise." 

"  And  what's  that  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you— not  yet,  at  all  events." 

"I  always  thought  you  a  very  fine  specimen  of  the 
man  bom  to  do  nothing,"  said  Munden,  with  that  smile 
which  permitted  him  a  surprising  candour  in  conversa- 
tion. 

"And  you  were  quite  right,"  returned  Tarrant,  with  a 
laugh.  "  I  am  a  born  artist  in  indolence.  It's  the  pity 
of  pities  that  circumstances  will  frustrate  Nature's  pur- 
pose." 

"  You  think  you  can  support  yourself  by  journalism  ? " 

"  I  must  try. — Run  your  eye  over  that." 

He  took  from  the  table  a  slip  of  manuscript,  headed, 
"  A  Reverie  in  Wall  Street."  Munden  read  it,  sat  thought- 
ful for  a  moment,  and  laughed. 

"Devilish  savage.  Did  you  write  it  after  a  free 
lunch  ? " 

"  Wrote  it  this  morning.  Shall  I  try  one  of  the  even- 
ing papers  with  it, — or  one  of  the  weeklies  ? " 

Munden  suggested  a  few  alterations,  and  mentioned 
the  journal  which  he  thought  might  possibly  find  room 
for  such  a  bit  of  satire. 

"  Done  anything  else  ? " 

"  Here's  a  half-finished  paper — '  The  Commercial  Pros- 
pects of  the  Bahamas.' " 

"Let  me  look." 

After  reading  a  page  or  two  with  critically  wrinkled 
forehead,  Munden  laid  it  down. 

"  Seems  pretty  solid, — libellous,  too,  I  should  say. 
You've  more  stuff  in  you  than  I  thought.  All  right ;  go 
ahead. — Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  to  meet  a  man 
who  may  be  useful." 

"  To-morrow  I  can't.     I  dine  at  Lady  Pollard's." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  Didn't  you  know  Pollard  of  Trinity  ? — the  only  son 
of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow." 


306  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Next  day,  then." 

"  Can't.    I  dine  with  some  people  at  Bedford  Park." 

Munden  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"  At  this  rate,  you  may  live  pretty  well  on  a  dress  suit. 
Any  more  engagements  ? " 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  But  I  shall  accept  all  that 
offer.  I'm  hungry  for  the  society  of  decent  English 
people.  I  used  to  neglect  my  acquaintances ;  I  know 
better  now.  Go  and  live  for  a  month  in  a  cheap  New 
York  boarding-house,  and  you'll  come  out  with  a  whole- 
some taste  for  English  refinement." 

To  enable  his  friend  to  read,  Tarrant  had  already  lit  a 
lamp.  Munden,  glancing  about  the  room,  said  carelessly : 

"  Do  you  still  possess  the  furniture  of  the  old  place  ? " 

"  No,"  was  the  answer,  given  with  annoyance.  "  Vaw- 
drey  had  it  sold  for  me." 

"  Pictures,  books,  and  all  the  nick-nacks  ?  " 

"  Everything. — Of  course  I'm  sorry  for  it ;  but  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  I  shouldn't  return  to  England  for 
some  years." 

"  You  never  said  anything  of  that  kind  to  me." 

"No,  I  didn't,"* the  other  replied  gloomily.  And  all  at 
once  he  fell  into  so  taciturn  a  mood,  that  his  companion, 
after  a  few  more  remarks  and  inquiries,  rose  from  his 
chair  to  leave. 

From  seven  to  nine  Tarrant  sat  resolutely  at  his  table, 
and  covered  a  few  pages  with  the  kind  of  composition 
which  now  came  most  easily  to  him, — a  somewhat  viru- 
lent sarcasm.  He  found  pleasure  in  the  work  ;  but  after 
nine  o'clock  his  thoughts  strayed  to  matters  of  personal 
interest,  and  got  beyond  control.  Would  the  last  post 
of  the  evening  bring  him  an  answer  to  a  letter  he  had  des- 
patched this  morning  ?  At  length  he  laid  down  his  pen, 
and  listened  nervously  for  that  knock  which,  at  one  time 
or  another,  is  to  all  men  a  heart-shaking  sound. 

It  came  at  the  street  door,  and  was  quickly  followed  by 
a  tap  at  his  own.  Nancy  had  lost  no  time  in  replying. 
What  her  letter  might  contain  he  found  it  impossible  to 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  307 

conjecture.  Reproaches  ?  Joyous  welcome  ?  Wrath  ? 
Forgiveness  ?  He  knew  her  so  imperfectly,  that  he  could 
not  feel  sure  even  as  to  the  probabilities  of  the  case.  And 
his  suspense  was  abundantly  justified.  Her  answer 
came  upon  him  with  the  force  of  a  shock  totally  unex- 
pected. 

He  read  the  lines  again  and  again;  he  stared  at  the 
bank-note.  His  first  sensation  was  one  of  painful  sur- 
prise ;  thereupon  succeeded  fiery  resentment.  Reason  put 
in  a  modest  word,  hinting  that  he  had  deserved  no  better ; 
but  he  refused  to  listen.  Nothing  could  excuse  so  gross 
an  insult.  He  had  not  thought  Nancy  capable  of  this  be- 
haviour. Tested,  she  betrayed  the  vice  of  birth.  Her 
imputation  upon  his  motive  in  marrying  her  was  sheer 
vulgar  abuse,  possible  only  on  vulgar  lips.  Well  and 
good;  now  he  knew  her;  all  the  torment  of  conscience 
he  had  suffered  was  needless.  And  for  the  moment  he 
experienced  a  great  relief. 

In  less  that  ten  minutes  letter  and  bank-note  were  en- 
closed in  a  new  envelope,  and  addressed  back  again  to  the 
sender.  With  no  word  of  comment ;  she  must  interpret 
him  as  she  could,  and  would.  He  went  out,  and  threw 
the  offensive  packet  into  the  nearest  receptacle  for  such 
things. 

Work  was  over  for  to-night.  After  pacing  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  Dean's  Yard  until  his  pulse  had  recovered  a 
normal  beat,  he  issued  into  the  peopled  ways,  and  turned 
towards  Westminster  Bridge. 

Despite  his  neglect  of  Nancy,  he  had  never  ceased  to 
think  of  her  with  a  tenderness  which,  in  his  own  judg- 
ment, signified  something  more  than  the  simple  fidelity 
of  a  married  man.  Faithful  in  the  technical  sense  he  had 
not  been,  but  the  casual  amours  of  a  young  man  caused 
him  no  self-reproach  ;  Nancy's  image  remained  without 
rival  in  his  mind  ;  he  had  continued  to  acknowledge  her 
claims  upon  him,  and,  from  time  to  time,  to  think  of  her 
with  a  lover's  longing.  As  he  only  wrote  when  prompted 
by  such  a  mood,  his  letters,  however  unsatisfying,  were 


308  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

sincere.  Various  influences  conflicted  with  this  amiable 
and  honourable  sentiment.  The  desire  of  independence 
which  had  speeded  him  away  from  England  still  accom- 
panied him  on  his  return ;  he  had  never  ceased  to  regret 
his  marriage,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that,  without  this  legal 
bondage,  it  would  have  been  much  easier  to  play  a  manly 
part  at  the  time  of  Nancy's  becoming  a  mother.  Were 
she  frankly  his  mistress,  he  would  not  be  keeping  thus 
far  away  when  most  she  needed  the  consolation  of  his 
presence.  The  secret  marriage  condemned  him  to  a 
course  of  shame,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more 
he  marvelled  at  his  deliberate  complicity  in  such  a  fraud. 
When  poverty  began  to  make  itself  felt,  when  he  was 
actually  hampered  in  his  movements  by  want  of  money, 
this  form  of  indignity,  more  than  any  galling  to  his  pride, 
intensified  the  impatience  with  which  he  remembered 
that  he  could  no  longer  roam  the  world  as  an  adventurer. 
Any  day  some  trivial  accident  might  oppress  him  with 
the  burden  of  a  wife  and  child  who  looked  to  him  for 
their  support.  Tarrant  the  married  man,  unless  he  were 
content  to  turn  simple  rogue  and  vagabond,  must  make 
for  himself  a  plac*  in  the  money-earning  world.  His  in- 
dolence had  no  small  part  in  his  revolt  against  the  stress 
of  such  a  consideration.  The  climate  of  the  Bahamas  by 
no  means  tended  to  invigorate  him,  and  in  the  United 
States  he  found  so  much  to  observe, — even  to  enjoy, — 
that  the  necessity  of  effort  was  kept  out  of  sight  as  long 
as,  by  one  expedient  and  another,  he  succeeded  in  procur- 
ing means  to  live  upon  without  working. 

During  the  homeward  voyage — a  trial  such  as  he  had 
never  known,  amid  squalid  discomforts  which  enraged 
even  more  than  they  disgusted  him — his  heart  softened  in 
anticipation  of  a  meeting  with  Nancy,  and  of  the  sight  of 
his  child.  Apart  from  his  fellow-travellers, — in  whom  he 
could  perceive  nothing  but  coarseness  and  vileness, — he 
spent  the  hours  in  longing  for  England  and  for  the  home 
he  would  make  there,  in  castigating  the  flagrant  faults  of 
his  character,  moderating  his  ambitions,  and  endeavour- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  399 

ing  to  find  a  way  out  of  the  numerous  grave  difficulties 
with  which  his  future  was  beset. 

Landed,  he  rather  forgot  than  discarded  these  whole- 
some meditations.  What  he  had  first  to  do  was  so  very 
unpleasant,  and  taxed  so  rudely  his  self-respect,  that  he 
insensibly  fell  back  again  into  the  rebellious  temper. 
Choice  there  was  none ;  reaching  London  with  a  few  shil- 
lings in  his  pocket,  of  necessity  he  repaired  forthwith  to 
Mr.  Vawdrey's  office  in  the  City,  and  made  known  the 
straits  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Vawdrey,  with  his 
usual  good-humour,  "how  much  have  you  had  of  me 
since  you  started  for  the  Bahamas  ? " 

"That  is  hardly  a  fair  question,"  Tarrant  replied,  en- 
deavouring not  to  hang  his  head  like  an  every-day  beggar. 
"  I  went  out  on  a  commission — 

"  True.     But  after  you  ceased  to  be  a  commissioner  ? " 

"You  have  lent  me  seventy  pounds.  Living  in  the 
States  is  expensive.  What  I  got  for  my  furniture  has 
gone  as  well,  yet  I  certainly  haven't  been  extravagant; 
and  for  the  last  month  or  two  I  lived  like  a  tramp.  Will 
you  make  my  debt  to  you  a  round  hundred  ?  It  shall  be 
repaid,  though  I  may  be  a  year  or  two  about  it." 

The  loan  was  granted,  but  together  with  a  great  deal  of 
unpalatable  counsel.  Having  found  his  lodging,  Tarrant 
at  once  invested  ten  pounds  in  providing  himself  with  a 
dress  suit,  and  improving  his  ordinary  attire, — he  had  sold 
every  garment  he  could  spare  in  New  York.  For  the 
dress  suit  he  had  an  immediate  use  ;  on  the  very  platform 
of  Euston  Station,  at  his  arrival,  a  chance  meeting  with 
one  of  his  old  college  friends  resulted  in  an  invitation  to 
dine,  and,  even  had  not  policy  urged  him  to  make  the 
most  of  such  acquaintances,  he  was  in  no  mood  for  reject- 
ing a  summons  back  into  the  world  of  civilisation.  Post- 
poning the  purposed  letter  to  Nancy  (which,  had  he  writ- 
ten it  sooner,  would  have  been  very  unlike  the  letter  he 
subsequently  sent),  he  equipped  himself  once  more  as  a 
gentleman,  and  spent  several  very  enjoyable  hours  in 


310  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

looking  up  the  members  of  his  former  circle — Hodiernal s 
and  others.  Only  to  Harvey  Munden  did  he  confide 
something  of  the  anxieties  which  lay  beneath  his  assumed 
light-heartedness.  Munden  was  almost  the  only  man  he 
knew  for  whom  he  had  a  genuine  respect. 

Renewal  of  intercourse  with  people  of  good  social 
standing  made  him  more  than  ever  fretful  in  the  thought 
that  he  had  clogged  himself  with  marriage.  Whatever 
Nancy's  reply  to  his  announcement  that  he  w^as  home 
again,  he  would  have  read  it  with  discontent.  To  have 
the  fact  forced  upon  him  (a  fact  he  seriously  believed  it) 
that  his  wife  could  not  be  depended  upon  even  for  ele- 
mentary generosity  of  thought,  was  at  this  moment  espe- 
cially disastrous ;  it  weighed  the  balance  against  his  feel- 
ings of  justice  and  humanity,  hitherto,  no  matter  how  he 
acted,  always  preponderant  over  the  baser  issues  of  char- 
acter and  circumstance. 

He  stood  leaning  upon  the  parapet  of  Westminster 
Bridge,  his  eyes  scanning  the  dark  facade  of  the  Houses 
of  Parliament. 

How  would  the  strong,  unscrupulous,  really  ambitious 
man  act  in  such  a  case  ?  What  was  to  prevent  him  from 
ignoring  the  fact  that  he  was  married,  and  directing  his 
course  precisely  as  he  would  have  done  if  poverty  had 
come  upon  him  before  his  act  of  supreme  foolishness  ? 
Journalism  must  have  been  his  refuge  then,  as  now ;  but 
Society  would  have  held  out  to  him  the  hope  of  every 
adventurer — a  marriage  wTith  some  w^oman  whose  wealth 
and  connections  would  clear  an  upward  path  in  whatever 
line  he  chose  to  follow.  Why  not  abandon  to  Nancy  the 
inheritance  it  would  degrade  him  to  share,  and  so  pur- 
chase back  his  freedom  ?  The  bargain  might  be  made ;  a 
strong  man  would  carry  it  through,  and  ultimately  tri- 
umph by  daring  all  risks. 

Having  wrought  himself  to  this  point  of  insensate 
revolt,  he  quitted  his  musing-station  on  the  bridge  and 
walked  away. 

Nancy  did  not  write  again.    There  passed  four  or  five 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

days,  and  Tarrant,  working  hard  as  well  as  enjoying  the 
pleasures  of  Society,  made  up  his  mind  not  to  see  her.  He 
would  leave  events  to  take  their  course.  A  heaviness  of 
heart  often  troubled  him,  but  he  resisted  it,  and  told  him- 
self that  he  was  becoming  stronger. 

After  a  long  day  of  writing,  he  addressed  a  packet  to  a 
certain  periodical,  and  went  out  to  post  it.  No  sooner  had 
he  left  the  house  than  a  woman,  who  had  been  about  to 
pass  him  on  the  pavement,  abruptly  turned  round  and 
hurriedly  walked  away.  But  for  this  action,  he  would 
not  have  noticed  her ;  as  it  was,  he  recognised  the  figure, 
and  an  impulse  which  allowed  of  no  reflection  brought 
him  in  a  moment  to  her  side.  In  the  ill-lighted  street  a 
face  could  with  difficulty  be  observed,  but  Nancy's  features 
were  unmistakable  to  the  eye  that  now  fell  upon  them. 

"Stop,  and  let  me  speak  to  you,"  he  exclaimed. 

She  walked  only  the  more  quickly,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  take  her  by  the  arm. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

She  spoke  as  if  to  an  insolent  stranger,  and  shook  off 
his  grasp. 

"  If  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  why  are  you  here  ? " 

"  Here  ?    I  suppose  the  streets  are  free  to  me  ? " 

"  Nothing  would  bring  you  to  Great  College  Street  if 
you  didn't  know  that  I  was  living  here.  Now  that  we 
have  met,  we  must  talk." 

"  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  say  to  you." 

"Well,  then  I  will  talk. — Come  this  way;  there's  a 
quiet  place  where  no  one  will  notice  us." 

Nancy  kept  her  eyes  resolutely  averted  from  him ;  he, 
the  while,  searched  her  face  with  eagerness,  as  well  as  the 
faint  rays  of  the  nearest  lamp  allowed  it. 

"  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  you  must  say  it  here." 

"  It's  no  use  then.     Go  your  way,  and  I'll  go  mine." 

He  turned,  and  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  Dean's 
Yard.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  step  behind  him,  and 
when  he  had  come  into  the  dark,  quiet  square,  Nancy  was 
there  too. 


312  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Better  to  be  reasonable,"  said  Tarrant,  approaching 
her  again.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  why  you  answered  a  well- 
meaiit  letter  with  vulgar  insult  ? " 

"  The  insult  came  from  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  shak- 
ing voice. 

"  What  did  I  say  that  gave  you  offence  ? " 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  To  write  in  that 
way  after  never  answering  my  letter  for  months,  leaving 
me  without  a  word  at  such  a  time,  making  me  think  either 
that  you  were  dead  or  that  you  would  never  let  me  hear 
of  you  again — 

"  I  told  you  it  was  a  mere  note,  just  to  let  you  know  I 
was  back.  I  said  you  should  hear  more  when  we  met." 

"  Very  well,  we  have  met.  What  have  you  to  say  for 
yourself  ? " 

"  First  of  all,  this.  That  you  are  mistaken  in  supposing 
I  should  ever  consent  to  share  your  money.  The  thought 
was  natural  to  you,  no  doubt ;  but  I  see  things  from  a  dif- 
ferent point  of  view." 

His  cold  anger  completely  disguised  the  emotion  stirred 
in  him  by  Nancy's  presence.  Had  he  not  spoken  thus,  he 
must  have  given  way  to  joy  and  tenderness.  For  Nancy 
seemed  more  beautiful  than  the  memory  he  had  retained 
of  her,  and  even  at  such  a  juncture  she  was  far  from  ex- 
hibiting the  gross  characteristics  attributed  to  her  by  his 
rebellious  imagination. 

"  Then  I  don't  understand,"  were  her  next  words,  "  why 
you  wrote  to  me  again  at  all." 

"  There  are  many  things  in  me  that  you  don't  under- 
stand, and  can't  understand." 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  That's  why  I  see  no  use  in  our 
talking." 

Tarrant  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  said — a  mean- 
ingless retort,  which  covered  his  inability  to  speak  as  his 
heart  prompted. 

"  At  all  events  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  it's  fortunate 
you  passed  just  as  I  was  coming  out." 

Nancy  would  not  accept  the  conciliatory  phrase. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  313 

"  I  hadn't  the  least  intention  of  seeing  you,"  she  replied. 
"  It  was  a  curiosity  to  know  where  you  lived,  nothing  else. 
I  shall  never  forgive  you  for  the  way  in  which  you  have 
behaved  to  me,  so  you  needn't  try  to  explain  yourself." 

"  Here  and  now,  I  should  certainly  not  try.  The  only 
thing  I  will  say  about  myself  is,  that  I  very  much  regret 
not  having  made  known  that  you  were  married  to  me 
when  plain  honesty  required  it.  Now,  I  look  upon  it  as 
something  over  and  done  with,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
I  shall  never  benefit  by  the  deception — 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  J  shall  benefit  by  it  ?  How 
can  you  tell  what  has  been  happening  since  you  last  heard 
from  me  in  America  ? " 

"I  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  things  are  the  same." 

"  Then  you  didn't  even  take  measures  to  have  news  of 
me  from  any  one  else  ? " 

"  What  need  ?  I  should  always  have  received  any 
letter  you  sent." 

"  You  thought  it  likely  that  I  should  appeal  to  you  if  I 
were  in  difficulties." 

He  stood  silent,  glad  of  the  obscurity  which  made  it 
needless  for  him  to  command  his  features.  At  length  : 

"  What  is  the  simple  fact  ?  Has  your  secret  been  dis- 
covered, or  not  ? " 

"  How  does  it  concern  you  ? " 

"  Only  in  this  way :  that  if  you  are  to  be  dependent 
upon  any  one,  it  must  be  upon  me." 

Nancy  gave  a  scornful  laugh. 

"  That's  very  generous,  considering  your  position.  But 
happily  you  can't  force  me  to  accept  your  generosity,  any 
more  than  I  can  compel  you  to  take  a  share  of  my 
money." 

''Without  the  jibe  at  my  poverty,"  Tarrant  said,  "  that 
is  a  sufficient  answer.  As  we  can't  even  pretend  to  be 
friendly  with  each  other,  I  am  very  glad  there  need  be  no 
talk  of  our  future  relations.  You  are  provided  for,  and  no 
doubt  will  take  care  not  to  lose  the  provision.  If  ever  you 


314  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

prefer  to  forget  that  we  are  legally  bound,  I  shall  be  no 
obstacle." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  replied  Nancy,  after  a  pause, 
her  voice  expressing  satisfaction.  "  Perhaps  we  should  do 
better  to  make  the  understanding  at  once.  You  are  quite 
free;  I  should  never  acknowledge  you  as  my  hus- 
band." 

"  You  seriously  mean  it  ? " 

"  Do  I  seem  to  be  joking  ? " 

"  Very  well.  I  won't  say  that  I  should  never  acknowl- 
edge you  as  my  wife ;  so  far  from  that,  I  hold  myself 
responsible  whenever  you  choose  to  make  any  kind  of 
claim  upon  me.  But  I  shall  not  dream  of  interfering  with 
your  liberty.  If  ever  you  wish  to  write  to  me,  you  may 
safely  address  to  the  house  at  Champion  Hill. — And  re- 
member always,"  he  added  sternly,  "  that  it  was  not  I  who 
made  such  a  parting  necessary." 

Nancy  returned  his  look  through  the  gloom,  and  said 
in  like  tone : 

"  I  shall  do  my  best  never  to  think  of  it  at  all.  For- 
tunately, my  time  and  my  thoughts  are  occupied." 

"  How  ? "  Tarrant  could  not  help  asking,  as  she  turned 
away;  for  her  tone  implied  some  special  significance  in 
the  words. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  anything  whatever  about 
me,"  came  from  Nancy,  who  was  already  moving  away. 

He  allowed  her  to  go. 

"  So  it  is  to  be  as  I  wished,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
mock  courage.  "  So  much  the  better." 

And  he  went  home  to  a  night  of  misery. 


VI 

NOT  long  after  the  disappearance  of  Fanny  French, 
Mrs.  Damerel  called  one  day  upon  Luckworth  Crewe  at 
his  office  in  Farringdon  Street.  Crewe  seldom  had  busi- 
ness with  ladies,  and  few  things  could  have  surprised  him 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  315 

more  than  a  visit  from  this  lady  in  particular,  whom  he 
knew  so  well  by  name,  and  regarded  with  such  special 
interest.  She  introduced  herself  as  a  person  wishing  to 
find  a  good  investment  for  a  small  capital ;  but  the  half- 
hour's  conversation  which  followed  became  in  the  end 
almost  a  confidential  chat.  Mrs.  Damerel  spoke  of  her 
nephew  Horace  Lord,  with  whom,  she  understood,  Mr. 
Ore  we  was  on  terms  of  intimacy ;  she  professed  a  grave 
solicitude  on  his  account,  related  frankly  the  unhappy 
circumstances  which  had  estranged  the  young  man  from 
her,  and  ultimately  asked  whether  Crewe  could  not 
make  it  worth  his  own  while  to  save  Horace  from  the 
shoals  of  idleness,  and  pilot  him  into  some  safe  commer- 
cial haven.  This  meeting  was  the  first  of  many  between 
the  fashionable  lady  and  the  keen  man  of  affairs.  With- 
out a  suspicion  of  how  it  had  come  about,  Horace  Lord 
presently  found  himself  an  informal  partner  in  Crewe's 
business ;  he  invested  only  a  nominal  sum,  which  might 
be  looked  upon  as  a  premium  of  apprenticeship ;  but  there 
was  an  understanding  that  at  the  close  of  the  term  of  tute- 
lage imposed  by  his  father's  will,  he  should  have  the  offer 
of  a  genuine  partnership  on  very  inviting  terms. 

Horace  was  not  sorry  to  enter  again  upon  regular  occu- 
pation. He  had  considerably  damaged  his  health  in  the 
effort  to  live  up  to  his  ideal  of  thwarted  passion,  and  could 
no  longer  entertain  a  hope  that  Fanny's  escapade  was  con- 
sistent with  innocence.  Having  learnt  how  money  slips 
through  the  fingers  of  a  gentleman  with  fastidious  tastes, 
he  welcomed  a  prospect  of  increased  resources,  and  applied 
himself  with  some  energy  to  learning  his  new  business. 
But  with  Mrs.  Damerel  he  utterly  refused  to  be  reconciled, 
and  of  his  sister  he  saw  very  little.  Nancy,  however,  ap- 
proved the  step  he  had  taken,  and  said  she  would  be  con- 
tent to  know  that  all  was  well  with  him. 

Upon  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the  church  bells  had 
ceased  to  clang,  Luckworth  Crewe,  not  altogether  at  his 
ease  in  garb  of  flagrant  respectability,  sat  by  the  fireside 
of  a  pleasant  little  room  conversing  with  Mrs.  Damerel. 


316  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Their  subject,  as  usual  at  the  beginning  of  talk,  was  Hor- 
ace Lord. 

"  He  won't  speak  of  you  at  all,"  said  Crewe,  in  a  voice 
singularly  subdued,  sympathetic,  respectful.  "  I  have  done 
all  I  could,  short  of  telling  him  that  I  know  you.  He's 
very  touchy  still  on  that  old  affair." 

"How  would  he  like  it,"  asked  the  lady,  "if  you  told 
him  that  we  are  acquaintances  ? " 

"  Impossible  to  say.  Perhaps  it  would  make  no  differ- 
ence one  way  or  another." 

Mrs.  Damerel  was  strikingly,  yet  becomingly,  arrayed. 
The  past  year  had  dealt  no  less  gently  with  her  than  its 
predecessors ;  if  anything,  her  complexion  had  gained  in 
brilliancy,  perhaps  a  consequence  of  the  hygienic  precau- 
tions due  to  her  fear  of  becoming  stout.  A  stranger,  even 
a  specialist  in  the  matter,  might  have  doubted  whether  the 
fourth  decade  lay  more  than  a  month  or  two  behind  her. 
So  far  from  seeking  to  impress  her  visitor  with  a  pose  of 
social  superiority,  she  behaved  to  him  as  though  his  pres- 
ence honoured  as  much  as  it  delighted  her;  look,  tone, 
bearing,  euch  was  a  flattery  which  no  obtuseness  could  fail 
to  apprehend,  and  Crewe's  countenance  proved  him  any- 
thing but  inappreciative.  Hitherto  she  had  spoken  and 
listened  with  her  head  drooping  in  gentle  melancholy; 
now,  with  a  sudden  change  intended  to  signify  the  native 
buoyancy  of  her  disposition,  she  uttered  a  rippling  laugh, 
which  showed  her  excellent  teeth,  and  said  prettily : 

"  Poor  boy !  I  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  having  tried 
to  save  him  from  one  of  my  own  sex. — Not,"  she  added, 
"  that  I  foresaw  how  that  poor  silly  girl  would  justify  my 
worst  fears  of  her.  Perhaps,"  her  head  drooping  again,  "  I 
ought  to  reproach  myself  with  what  happened." 

"  I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  replied  Crewe,  whose  eyes  lost 
nothing  of  the  exhibition  addressed  to  them.  "Even  if 
you  had  been  the  cause  of  it,  which  of  course  you  weren't, 
I  should  have  said  you  had  done  the  right  thing.  Every 
one  knew  what  Fanny  French  must  come  to." 

"  Isn't  it  sad  ?    A  pretty  girl — but  so  ill  brought  up,  I 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  317 

fear.    Can  you  give  me  any  news  of  her  sister,  the  one 
who  came  here  and  frightened  me  so  ? " 

"  Oh,  she's  going  on  as  usual." 

Crewe  checked  himself,  and  showed  hesitation. 

"She  almost  threatened  me,"  Mrs.  Damerel  pursued, 
with  timid  sweetness.  "  Do  you  think  she  is  the  kind  of 
person  to  plot  any  harm  against  one  ?  " 

"  She  had  better  not  try  it  on,"  said  Crewe,  in  his  natu- 
ral voice.  Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he  pursued 
more  softly:  "But  I  was  going  to  speak  of  her.  You 
haven't  heard  that  Miss  Lord  has  taken  a  position  in  the 
new  branch  of  that  Dress  Supply  Association  ? " 

Mrs.  Damerel  kept  an  astonished  silence. 

"  There  can't  be  any  doubt  of  it ;  I  have  been  told  on 
the  best  authority.  She  is  in  what  they  call  the  'club- 
room,'  a  superintendent.  It's  a  queer  thing;  what  can 
have  led  her  to  it  ? " 

"  I  must  make  inquiries,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel,  with  an 
air  of  concern.  "How  sad  it  is,  Mr.  Crewe,  that  these 
young  relatives  of  mine, — almost  the  only  relatives  I  have, 
— should  refuse  me  their  confidence  and  their  affection. 
Pray,  does  Horace  know  of  what  his  sister  is  doing  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him  about  it  until  I  had 
seen  you." 

"  How  very  kind  !  How  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your 
constant  though tfulness  ! " 

Why  Crewe  should  have  practised  such  reticence,  why 
it  signified  kindness  and  thoughtfulness  to  Mrs.  Damerel, 
neither  he  nor  she  could  easily  have  explained.  But  their 
eyes  met,  with  diffident  admiration  on  the  one  side,  and 
touching  amiability  on  the  other.  Then  they  discussed 
Nancy's  inexplicable  behaviour  from  every  point  of  view ; 
or  rather,  Mrs.  Damerel  discussed  it,  and  her  companion 
made  a  pretence  of  doing  so.  Crewe's  manner  had  become 
patently  artificial ;  he  either  expressed  himself  in  trivial 
phrases,  which  merely  avoided  silence,  or  betrayed  an  em- 
barrassment, an  abstraction,  which  caused  the  lady  to  ob- 
serve him  with  all  the  acuteness  at  her  command. 
21 


318  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"  You  haven't  seen  her  lately  ? "  she  asked,  when  Crewe 
had  been  staring  at  the  window  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Seen  her  ? — No ;  not  for  a  long  time." 

"  I  think  you  told  me  you  haven't  called  there  since 
Mr.  Lord's  death  ? " 

"  I  never  was  there  at  all,"  he  answered  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  I  remember  your  saying  so.  Of  course  there  is 
no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  go  into  business,  if  time  is 
heavy  on  her  hands,  as  I  dare  say  it  may  be.  So  many 
ladies  prefer  to  have  an  occupation  of  that  kind  nowadays. 
It's  a  sign  of  progress  ;  we  are  getting  more  sensible  ;  So- 
ciety used  to  have  such  silly  prejudices.  Even  within  my 
recollection — how  quickly  things  change ! — no  lady  would 
have  dreamt  of  permitting  her  daughter  to  take  an  engage- 
ment in  a  shop  or  any  such  place.  Now  we  have  women 
of  title  starting  as  milliners  and  modistes,  and  soon  it  will 
be  quite  a  common  thing  to  see  one's  friends  behind  the 
counter." 

She  gave  a  gay  little  laugh,  in  which  Crewe  joined 
unmelodiously, — for  he  durst  not  -be  merry  in  the  note 
natural  to  him, — then  raised  her  eyes  in  playful  ap- 
peal. 

"  If  ever  I  should  fall  into  misfortune,  Mr.  Crewe,  would 
you  put  me  in  the  way  of  earning  my  living  ? " 

"  You  couldn't.  You're  above  all  that  kind  of  thing. 
It's  for  the  rough  and  ready  sort  of  women,  and  I  can't  say 
I  have  much  opinion  of  them." 

"  That's  a  very  nice  little  compliment ;  but  at  the  same 
time,  it's  rather  severe  on  the  women  who  are  practical. — 
Tell  me  frankly  :  Is  my — my  niece  one  of  the  people  you 
haven't  much  opinion  of  ? " 

Crewe  shuffled  his  feet. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Miss  Lord." 

"  But  what  is  really  your  opinion  of  her  ? "  Mrs.  Darn- 
erel  urged  softly. 

Crewe  looked  up  and  down,  smiled  in  a  vacant  way, 
and  appeared  very  uncomfortable. 

"  May  I  guess  the  truth  ? "  said  his  playful  companion. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  319 

u  No,  I'll  tell  you.  I  wanted  to  marry  her,  and  did  my 
best  to  get  her  to  promise." 

"  I  thought  so !  "  She  paused  on  the  note  of  arch  satis- 
faction, and  mused.  "  How  nice  of  you  to  confess  ! — And 
that's  all  past  and  forgotten,  is  it  ? " 

Never  man  more  unlike  himself  than  the  bold  advertis- 
ing-agent in  this  colloquy.  He  was  subdued  and  shy ;  his 
usual  racy  and  virile  talk  had  given  place  to  an  insipid 
mildness.  He  seemed  bent  on  showing  that  the  graces  of 
polite  society  were  not  so  strange  to  him  as  one  might 
suppose.  But  under  Mrs.  Damerel's  interrogation  a 
restiveness  began  to  appear  in  him,  and  at  length  he 
answered  in  his  natural  blunt  voice : 

"  Yes,  it's  all  over — and  for  a  good  reason." 

The  lady's  curiosity  was  still  more  provoked. 

"  No,"  she  exclaimed  laughingly,  "  I  am  not  going  to 
ask  the  reason.  That  would  be  presuming  too  far  on 
friendship." 

Crewe  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
seemed  to  look  there  for  a  solution  of  some  difficulty. 
When  the  silence  had  lasted  more  than  a  minute,  he  began 
to  speak  slowly  and  awkwardly. 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to — in  fact,  I've  been  thinking  that 
you  ought  to  know." 

u  The  good  reason  ? " 

"  Yes.  You're  the  only  one  that  could  stand  in  the 
place  of  a  mother  to  her.  And  I  don't  think  she  ought  to 
be  living  alone,  like  she  is,  with  no  one  to  advise  and  help 
her." 

"  I  have  felt  that  very  strongly,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel. 
u  The  old  servant  who  is  with  her  can't  be  at  all  a  suitable 
companion — that  is,  to  be  treated  on  equal  terms.  A  very 
strange  arrangement,  indeed.  But  you  don't  mean  that 
you  thought  less  well  of  her  because  she  is  living  in  that 
way  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  It's  something  a  good  deal  more  seri- 
ous than  that." 

Mrs.  Damerel  became  suddenly  grave. 


320  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Then  I  certainly  ought  to  know." 

"  You  ought.  I  think  it  very  likely  she  would  have 
been  glad  enough  to  make  a  friend  of  you,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  this — this  affair,  which  stood  in  the  way.  There  can't 
be  any  harm  in  telling  you,  as  you  couldn't  wish  anything 
but  her  good." 

u  That  surely  you  may  take  for  granted." 

"  Well  then,  I  have  an  idea  that  she's  trying  to  earn 
money  because  some  one  is  getting  all  he  can  out  of  her — 
leaving  her  very  little  for  herself ;  and  if  so,  it's  time  you 
interfered." 

The  listener  was  so  startled  that  she  changed  colour. 

"  You  mean  that  some  man  has  her  in  his  power  ? " 

"  If  I'm  not  mistaken,  it  comes  to  that.  But  for  her 
father's  will,  she  would  have  been  married  long  ago,  and 
— she  ought  to  be." 

Having  blurted  out  these  words,  Crewe  felt  much  more 
at  ease.  As  Mrs.  Damerel's  eyes  fell,  the  sense  of  mascu- 
line predominance  awoke  in  him,  and  he  was  no  longer  so 
prostrate  before  the  lady's  natural  and  artificial  graces. 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ? "  she  asked,  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"  From  some  one  who  had  it  from  Miss  Lord  herself." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  isn't  a  malicious  false- 
hood?" 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  that  I  sit  here.  I  know  the  man's 
name,  and  wl^ere  he  lives,  and  all  about  him.  And  I 
know  where  the  child  is  at  nurse." 

"  The  child  ?— Oh— surely— never  ! " 

A  genuine  agitation  possessed  her ;  she  had  a  frightened, 
pain-stricken  look,  and  moved  as  if  she  must  act  without 
delay. 

"  It's  nearly  six  months  old,"  Crewe  continued.  "  Of 
course  that's  why  she  was  away  so  long." 

44  But  why  haven't  you  told  me  this  before  ?  It  was 
your  duty  to  tell  me — your  plain  duty.  How  long  have 
you  known  ? " 

41 1  heard  of  it  first  of  all  about  three  months  ago,  but  it 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  321 

was  only  the  other  day  that  I  was  told  the  man's  name, 
and  other  things  about  him." 

"  Is  it  known  to  many  people  ?  Is  the  poor  girl  talked 
about  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  Crewe  replied,  with  confidence.  "  The  per- 
son who  told  me  is  the  only  one  who  has  found  it  out ; 
you  may  depend  upon  that." 

"  It  must  be  a  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel  sharply. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  woman.  Some  one  I  know  very  well.  She 
told  me  just  because  she  thought  I  was  still  hoping  to 
marry  Miss  Lord,  and — well,  the  truth  is,  though  we're 
good  friends,  she  has  a  little  spite  against  me,  and  I 
suppose  it  amused  her  to  tell  me  something  disagree- 
able." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel,  "that  the  secret 
has  been  betrayed  to  a  dozen  people." 

"  I'll  go  bail  it  hasn't ! "  returned  Crewe,  falling  into 
his  vernacular. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it  at  all.  I  should  never  have 
dreamt  that  such  a  thing  was  possible.  What  is  the  man's 
name  ?  what  is  his  position  ? " 

"  Tarrant  is  his  name,  and  he's  related  somehow  to  a 
Mr.  Vawdrey,  well  known  in  the  City,  who  has  a  big 
house  over  at  Champion  Hill.  I  have  no  notion  how  they 
came  together,  or  how  long  it  was  going  on.  But  this  Mr. 
Tarrant  has  been  in  America  for  a  year,  I  understand ;  has 
only  just  come  back ;  and  now  he's  living  in  poorish  lodg- 
ings,— Great  College  Street,  Westminster.  I've  made  a 
few  inquiries  about  him,  but  I  can't  get  at  very  much.  A 
man  who  knows  Vawdrey  tells  me  that  Tarrant  has  no 
means,  and  that  he's  a  loafing,  affected  sort  of  chap.  If 
that's  true, — and  it  seems  likely  from  the  way  he's  living, 
— of  course  he  will  be  ready  enough  to  marry  Miss  Lord 
when  the  proper  time  has  come  ;  I'm  only  afraid  that's  all 
he  had  in  view  from  the  first.  And  I  can't  help  suspect- 
ing, as  I  said,  that  she's  supporting  him  now.  If  not,  why 
should  she  go  and  work  in  a  shop  ?  At  all  events,  a  decent 
man  wouldn't  allow  her  to  do  it." 


322  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"  A  decent  man,"  said  the  listener,  "  would  never  have 
allowed  her  to  fall  into  disgrace." 

"  Certainly  not,"  Crewe  assented  with  energy.  "  And 
as  for  my  keeping  quiet  about  it,  Mrs.  Damerel,  you've 
only  to  think  what  an  awkward  affair  it  was  to  mention. 
I'm  quite  sure  you'll  have  a  little  feeling  against  me,  be- 
cause I  knew  of  it " 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  think  that !  "  She  returned  to  her 
manner  of  suave  friendliness.  "  I  shall  owe  you  gratitude 
for  telling  me,  and  nothing  but  gratitude.  You  have  be- 
haved with  very  great  delicacy ;  I  cannot  say  how  highly 
I  appreciate  your  feeling  on  the  poor  girl's  behalf." 

u  If  I  can  be  of  any  use,  I  am  always  at  your  service." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Crewe,  thank  you  !  In  you  I 
have  found  a  real  friend, — and  how  rarely  they  are  met 
with  !  Of  course  I  shall  make  inquiries  at  once.  My  niece 
must  be  protected.  A  helpless  girl  in  that  dreadful  posi- 
tion may  commit  unheard-of  follies.  I  fear  you  are  right. 
He  is  making  her  his  victim.  With  such  a  secret,  she  is 
absolutely  at  his  mercy.  And  it  explains  why  she  has 
shunned  me.  Oh,  do  you  think  her  brother  knows  it  ? " 

"  I'm  quite  sure  he  doesn't ;  hasn't  the  least  suspicion." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  its  wonderful  how  she  has  escaped. 
Your  informant — how  did  she  find  it  out  ?  You  say  she 
had  the  story  from  the  girl's  own  lips.  But  why  ?  She 
must  have  shown  that  she  knew  something." 

Crewe  imparted  such  details  as  had  come  to  his  knowl- 
edge ;  they  were  meagre,  and  left  many  obscurities,  but 
Mrs.  Damerel  rewarded  him  with  effusive  gratitude,  and 
strengthened  the  spell  which  she  had  cast  upon  this  knight 
of  Farringdon  Street. 


VII 

EVERY  day  Tarrant  said  to  himself  :  "  I  am  a  free  man ; 
I  was  only  married  in  a  dream."  Every  night  he  thought 
of  Nancy,  and  suffered  heartache. 

He  thought,  too,  of  Nancy's  child,  his  own  son.    That 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  323 

Nancy  was  a  tender  mother,  he  knew  from  the  letter  she 
had  written  him  after  the  baby's  birth, — a  letter  he  would 
have  liked  to  read  again,  but  forbore.  Must  not  the  separa- 
tion from  her  child  be  hard  ?  If  he  saw  the  poor  little 
mortal,  how  would  the  sight  affect  him  ?  At  moments  he 
felt  a  longing  perhaps  definable  as  the  instinct  of  pater- 
nity ;  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  grow  sentimental  over 
babies,  his  own  or  other  people's.  Irony  and  sarcasm — 
very  agreeable  to  a  certain  class  of  newspaper  readers — 
were  just  now  his  stock-in-trade,  and  he  could  not  afford 
to  indulge  any  softer  mode  of  meditation. 

His  acquaintances  agreed  that  the  year  of  absence  had 
not  improved  him.  He  was  alarmingly  clever ;  he  talked 
well ;  but  his  amiability,  the  poetry  of  his  mind,  seemed 
to  have  been  lost  in  America.  He  could  no  longer  admire 
or  praise. 

For  his  own  part,  he  did  not  clearly  perceive  this 
change.  It  struck  him  only  that  the  old  friends  were  less 
interesting  than  he  had  thought  them ;  and  he  looked  for 
reception  in  circles  better  able  to  appreciate  his  epigrams 
and  paradoxes. 

A  few  weeks  of  such  life  broke  him  so  completely  to 
harness,  that  he  forgot  the  seasonable  miseries  which  had 
been  wont  to  drive  him  from  London  at  the  approach  of 
November.  When  the  first  fog  blackened  against  his 
windows,  he  merely  lit  the  lamp  and  wrote  on,  indifferent. 
Two  years  ago  he  had  declared  that  a  London  November 
would  fatally  blight  his  soul ;  that  he  must  flee  to  a  land 
of  sunshine,  or  perish.  There  was  little  time,  now,  to 
think  about  his  soul. 

One  Monday  morning  arrived  a  letter  which  surprised 
and  disturbed  him.  It  ran  thus  : 

"Mrs.  Eustace  Damerel  presents  her  compliments  to 
Mr.  Tarrant,  and  would  take  it  as  a  great  favour  if  he 
could  call  upon  her,  either  to-morrow  or  Tuesday,  at  any 
hour  between  three  and  seven.  She  particularly  desires 
to  see  Mr.  Tarrant  on  a  private  matter  of  mutual  interest." 

Now  this  could  have  but  one  meaning.     Mrs.  Eustace 


324:  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Damerel  was,  of  course,  Nancy's  relative ;  from  Nancy 
herself,  or  in  some  other  way,  she  must  have  learnt  the 
fact  of  his  marriage.  Probably  from  Nancy,  since  she 
knew  where  he  lived.  He  was  summoned  to  a  judicial 
interview.  Happily,  attendance  was  not  compulsory. 

Second  thoughts  advised  him  that  he  had  better  accept 
the  invitation.  He  must  know  what  measures  were  in 
progress  against  him.  If  Nancy  had  already  broken  her 
word,  she  might  be  disposed  to  revenge  herself  in  every 
way  that  would  occur  to  an  angry  woman  of  small  re- 
finement ;  she  might  make  life  in  London  impossible  for 
him. 

He  sat  down  and  penned  a  reply,  saying  that  he  would 
call  upon  Mrs.  Damerel  at  five  to-morrow.  But  he  did 
not  post  this.  After  all,  a  day's  delay  would  only  irritate 
him  ;  better  to  go  this  afternoon,  in  which  case  it  was  not 
worth  while  sending  an  answer. 

'  It  seemed  to  him  very  probable  that  Nancy  would  be 
with  her  aunt,  to  confront  him.  If  so, — if  indeed  she 
were  going  to  act  like  any  coarse  woman,  with  no  regard 
but  for  her  own  passions  and  interests, — he  would  at  least 
have  the  consolation  of  expelling  from  his  mind,  at  once 
and  for  ever,  her  haunting  image. 

Mrs.  Damerel,  who  during  the  past  twelve  months  had 
changed  her  abode  half-a-dozen  times,  now  occupied  pri- 
vate lodgings  in  Tyburnia.  On  his  admittance,  Tarraiit 
sat  alone  for  nearly  five  minutes  in  a  pretentiously  fur- 
nished room — just  the  room  in  which  he  had  expected  to 
find  Nancy's  relative;  the  delay  and  the  surroundings 
exasperated  his  nervous  mood,  so  that,  when  the  lady 
entered,  he  behaved  with  slighter  courtesy  than  became 
his  breeding.  Nothing  in  her  appearance  surprised  or  in- 
terested him.  There  was  a  distant  facial  resemblance  to 
Nancy,  natural  in  her  mother's  sister ;  there  was  expen- 
sive, though  not  particularly  tasteful  dress,  and  a  gait,  a 
manner,  distinguishable  readily  enough  from  what  they 
aimed  at  displaying— the  grace  of  a  woman  born  to  social 
privilege. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  325 

It  would  be  a  humiliating-  conversation  ;  Tarrant  braced 
himself  to  go  through  with  it.  He  stood  stiffly  while  his 
hostess  regarded  him  with  shrewd  eyes.  She  had  merely 
bent  her  head. 

"  Will  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Tarrant  ? " 

He  took  a  chair  without  speaking. 

"  I  think  you  know  me  by  name  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  Mrs.  Damerel." 

"  Some  time  ago,  I  suppose  ?  And  in  that  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me.  I  heard  your  name  yesterday  for 
the  first  time." 

It  was  the  sharp  rejoinder  of  a  woman  of  the  world. 
Tarrant  began  to  perceive  that  he  had  to  do  with  intel- 
ligence, and  would  not  be  allowed  to  perform  his  share  of 
the  talking  de  haut  en  bas. 

"  In  what  can  I  be  of  service  to  you  ? "  he  asked  with 
constrained  civility. 

"  You  can  tell  me,  please,  what  sort  of  connection  there 
is  between  you  and  my  niece,  Miss  Lord." 

Mrs.  Damerel  was  obviously  annoyed  by  his  demeanour, 
and  made  little  effort  to  disguise  her  feeling.  She  gave 
him  the  look  of  one  who  does  not  mean  to  be  trifled  with. 

"  Eeally,"  answered  the  young  man  with  a  smile,  "  I 
don't  know  what  authority  you  have  to  make  such  in- 
quiries. You  are  not,  I  believe,  Miss  Lord's  guardian." 

"  No,  but  I  am  her  only  relative  who  can  act  on  her 
behalf  where  knowledge  of  the  world  is  required.  As  a 
gentleman,  you  will  bear  this  in  mind.  It's  quite  true 
that  I  can't  oblige  you  to  tell  me  anything ;  but  when  I 
say  that  I  haven't  spoken  even  to  my  niece  of  what  I  have 
heard,  and  haven't  communicated  with  the  gentlemen  who 
are  her  guardians,  I  think  you  will  see  that  I  am  not  act- 
ing in  a  way  you  ought  to  resent." 

"You  mean,  Mrs.  Damerel,  that  what  passes  between 
us  is  in  confidence  ? " 

"  I  only  mean,  Mr.  Tarrant,  that  I  am  giving  you  an 
opportunity  of  explaining  yourself — so  that  I  can  keep 
the  matter  private  if  your  explanation  is  satisfactory." 


326  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  You  have  a  charge  of  some  kind  to  bring  against  me," 
said  Tarrant,  composedly.  "  I  must  first  of  all  hear  what 
it  is.  The  prisoner  at  the  bar  can't  be  prosecuting  coun- 
sel at  the  same  time." 

"  Do  you  acknowledge  that  you  are  on  intimate  terms 
with  Miss  Lord  ? " 

u  I  have  known  her  for  a  year  or  two." 

Tarrant  began  to  exercise  caution.  Nancy  had  no  hand 
in  this  matter ;  some  one  had  told  tales  about  her,  that 
was  all.  He  must  learn,  without  committing  himself, 
exactly  how  much  had  been  discovered. 

u  Are  you  engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"  Engaged  to  marry  her  ?    No." 

He  saw  in  Mrs.  Damerel's  clear  eye  that  she  convicted 
him  of  ambiguities. 

"  You  have  not  even  made  her  a  promise  of  marriage  ? " 

"How  much  simpler,  if  you  would  advance  a  clear 
charge.  I  will  answer  it  honestly." 

Mrs.  Damerel  seemed  to  weigh  the  value  of  this  under- 
taking. Tarrant  met  her  gaze  with  steady  indifference. 

"  It  may  only  be  a  piece  of  scandal, — a  mistake,  or  a 
malicious  invention.  I  have  been  told  that — that  you  are 
in  everything  but  law  my  niece's  husband." 

They  regarded  each  other  during  a  moment's  silence. 
Tarrant's  look  indicated  rapid  and  anxious  thought. 

"It  seems,"  he  said  at  length,  "that  you  have  no  great 
faith  in  the  person  who  told  you  this." 

"It  is  the  easiest  matter  in  the  world  to  find  out 
whether  the  story  is  true  or  not.  Inquiries  at  Falmouth 
would  be  quite  sufficient,  I  dare  say.  I  give  you  the  op- 
portunity of  keeping  it  quiet,  that's  all." 

"  You  won't  care  to  let  me  know  who  told  you  ? " 

"  There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't,"  said  Mrs.  Dam- 
erel, after  reflection.  "Do  you  know  Mr.  Luckworth 
Crewe  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  the  name." 

"  Indeed  ?  He  is  well  acquainted  with  Miss  Lord. 
Some  one  he  wouldn't  mention  gave  him  all  the  particu- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  327 

lars,  having  learnt  them  from  Miss  Lord  herself,  and  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  inform  me  of  my  niece's  very  pain- 
ful position." 

"  Who  is  this  man  ? "  Tarrant  asked  abruptly. 

"  I  am  rather  surprised  you  have  never  heard  of  him. 
He's  a  man  of  business.  My  nephew,  Mr.  Horace  Lord,  is 
shortly  to  be  in  partnership  with  him." 

"  Crewe  ?    No,  the  name  is  quite  strange  to  me." 

Tarrant's  countenance  darkened ;  he  paused  for  an  in- 
stant, then  added  impatiently : 

"  You  say  he  had  '  all  the  particulars.'  What  were 
they,  these  particulars  ? " 

lt  Will  one  be  enough  ?  A  child  was  born  at  Falmouth, 
and  is  now  at  a  place  just  outside  London,  in  the  care  of 
some  stranger." 

The  source  of  this  information  might,  or  might  not,  be 
Nancy  herself.  In  either  case,  there  was  no  further  hope 
of  secrecy.  Tarrant  abandoned  his  reserve,  and  spoke 
quietly,  civilly. 

"  So  far,  you  have  heard  the  truth.  What  have  you  to 
ask  of  me,  now  ? " 

"  You  have  been  abroad  for  a  long  time,  I  think  ? " 

"  For  about  a  year." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  wished  to  see  no  more  of 
her  ? " 

"  That  I  deserted  her,  in  plain  words  ?  It  meant  noth- 
ing of  the  kind." 

"  You  are  aware,  then,  that  she  has  taken  a  place  in  a 
house  of  business,  just  as  if  she  thought  it  necessary  to 
earn  her  own  living  ?  " 

Tarrant  displayed  astonishment. 

"  I  am  aware  of  no  such  thing.  How  long  has  that 
been  going  on  ? " 

"  Then  you  don't  see  her  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  her,  but  she  told  me  nothing  of  that." 

"  There's  something  very  strange  in  this,  Mr.  Tarrant. 
You  seem  to  me  to  be  speaking  the  truth.  No,  please  don't 
take  offence.  Before  I  saw  you,  you  were  a  total  stranger 


328  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

to  me,  and  after  what  I  had  heard,  I  couldn't  think  very 
well  of  you.  I  may  as  well  confess  that  you  seem  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  man  from  what  I  expected.  I  don't  wish 
to  offend  you,  far  from  it.  If  we  can  talk  over  this  dis- 
tressing affair  in  a  friendly  way,  so  much  the  better.  I 
have  nothing  whatever  in  view  but  to  protect  my  niece — 
to  do  the  best  that  can  be  done  for  her." 

"  That  I  have  taken  for  granted,"  Tarrant  replied.  "  I 
understand  that  you  expected  to  meet  a  scoundrel  of  a  very 
recognisable  type.  Well,  I  am  not  exactly  that.  But 
what  particular  act  of  rascality  have  you  in  mind  ?  Some- 
thing worse  than  mere  seduction,  of  course." 

"  Will  you  answer  a  disagreeable  question  ?  Are  you 
well-to-do  ? " 

"Anything  but  that." 

"  Indeed  ?    And  you  can  form  no  idea  why  Nancy  has 
gone  to  work  in  a  shop  ? " 
'  Tarrant  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  see,"  he  said  deliberately.  "  You  suspect  that  I  have 
been  taking  money  from  her  ?  " 

"  I  did  suspect  it ;  now  it  seems  to  me  more  unlikely." 

"  Many  thanks,"  he  answered,  with  cold  irony.  "  So  the 
situation  was  this :  Miss  Lord  had  been  led  astray  by  a 
rascally  fellow,  who  not  only  left  her  to  get  on  as  best  she 
could,  but  lived  on  her  income,  so  that  she  had  at  length 
to  earn  money  for  her  own  needs.  There's  something  very 
clear  and  rounded,  very  dramatic,  about  that.  What  I 
should  like  to  know  is,  whether  Miss  Lord  tells  the  story 
in  this  way." 

"  I  can't  say  that  she  does.  I  think  it  was  Mr.  Crewe 
who  explained  things  like  that." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Crewe.  But  he  may,  after  all, 
only  repeat  what  he  has  heard.  It's  a  pity  we  don't  know 
Miss  Lord's  actual  confidante." 

"  Of  course  you  have  not  received  assistance  from 
her?" 

Tarrant  stared  for  a  moment,  then  laughed  unpleas- 
antly. 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  329 

"  I  have  no  recollection  of  it." 

"Another  disagreeable  question.  Did  you  really  go 
away  and  leave  her  to  get  on  as  best  she  could  ? " 

He  looked  darkly  at  her. 

"And  if  I  did?" 

"  Wasn't  it  rather  unaccountable  behaviour — in  a  gen- 
tleman ? " 

"Possibly." 

"  I'can't  believe  it.    There  is  something  unexplained." 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  unexplained. — Mrs.  Damerel, 
I  should  have  thought  you  would  naturally  speak  first  to 
your  niece.  Why  did  you  send  for  me  before  doing 
so?" 

"To  find  out  what  sort  of  man  you  were,  so  that  I 
should  be  able  to  form  my  own  opinion  of  what  Nancy 
chose  to  tell  me.  Perhaps  she  may  refuse  to  tell  me  any- 
thing at  all — we  are  not  like  ordinary  relatives,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.  But  I  dare  say  you  know  better  than  I  do  how 
she  thinks  of  me." 

"  I  have  heard  her  speak  of  you  only  once  or  twice. 
At  all  events,  now  that  you  are  prepared,  you  will  go  and 
see  her  ? " 

"  I  must.  It  would  be  wrong  to  stand  by  and  do  noth- 
ing." 

"  And  you  will  see  her  guardians  ? " 

'•  That  must  depend.  I  certainly  shall  if  she  seems  to 
be  suffering  hardships.  I  must  know  why  she  goes  out  to 
work,  as  if  she  were  pinched  for  money.  There  is  her 
child  to  support,  of  course,  but  that  wouldn't  make  any 
difference  to  her  ;  she  is  well  provided  for." 

"  Yes.  There's  no  choice  but  to  fall  back  upon  the  vil- 
lain theory." 

He  rose,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"  You  mustn't  go  yet,  Mr.  Tarrant,"  said  his  hostess 
firmly.  "  I  have  said  that  I  can't  believe  such  things  of 
you.  If  you  would  only  explain " 

"  That's  just  what  I  can't  do.  It's  as  much  a  mystery 
to  me  as  to  you — her  wishing  to  earn  money." 


330  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  was  going  to  say — if  you  would  only  explain  your 
intentions  as  to  the  future — 

"  My  intentions  will  depend  entirely  on  what  I  hear 
from  your  niece.  I  shall  see  her  as  soon  as  possible.  Per- 
haps you  can  tell  me  at  what  hour  she  returns  from  busi- 
ness ? " 

"  No,  I  can't.     I  wish  you  would  talk  a  little  longer." 

His  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"  Mrs.  Damerel,  I  have  said  all  that  I  am  willing  to 
say.  What  you  have  heard  is  partly  true ;  you  probably 
won't  have  to  wait  very  long  for  the  rest  of  the  story,  but 
I  have  no  time  and  no  inclination  to  tell  it.  Go  and  see 
your  niece  to-morrow  by  all  means,— or  her  guardians,  if 
it  seems  necessary." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  we  are  parting  in  this  way." 

"  You  must  remember  how  difficult  it  is  to  keep  one's 
temper  under  certain  kinds  of  accusation." 
'  "  I  don't  accuse  you." 

"  Well,  then,  to  explain  calmly  that  one  couldn't  com- 
mit this  or  that  sordid  rascality ; — it  comes  to  the  same 
thing.  However,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  opening  my 
eyes.  I  have  got  into  a  very  foolish  position,  and  I  prom- 
ise you  I  will  get  out  of  it  as  quickly  as  may  be." 

Whereupon  he  bowed  his  leave-taking,  and  withdrew. 


VIII 

IT  was  not  yet  dark,  but  street-lamps  had  begun  to 
flare  and  flicker  in  the  gust  of  a  cold,  damp  evening.  A 
thin  and  slippery  mud  smeared  the  pavement.  Tarrant 
had  walked  mechanically  as  far  as  to  the  top  of  Park  Lane 
before  he  began  to  consider  his  immediate  course.  Among 
the  people  who  stood  waiting  for  omnibuses,  he  meditated 
thus: 

"  She  may  not  get  home  until  seven  or  half-past ;  then 
she  will  have  a  meal.  I  had  better  put  it  off  till  about 
half -past  eight.  That  leaves  me  some  four  hours  to  dis- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  331 

pose  of.  First  of  all  I'll  walk  home,  and — yes,  by  all  the 
devils !  I'll  finish  that  bit  of  writing.  A  year  ago  I  could 
110  more  have  done  it,  under  such  circumstances,  than 
have  built  a  suspension  bridge.  To-day  I  will — just  to 
show  that  I've  some  grit  in  me." 

Down  Park  Lane,  and  by  Buckingham  Palace  across 
to  Westminster,  he  kept  his  thoughts  for  the  most  part  on 
that  bit  of  writing.  Only  thus  could  he  save  himself  from 
an  access  of  fury  which  would  only  have  injured  him — 
the  ire  of  shame  in  which  a  man  is  tempted  to  beat  his 
head  against  stone  walls.  He  composed  aloud,  balancing 
many  a  pretty  antithesis,  and  polishing  more  than  one 
lively  paradox. 

In  his  bedroom-study  the  fire  had  gone  out.  No  matter ; 
he  would  write  in  the  cold.  It  was  mere  amanuensis 
work,  penning  at  the  dictation  of  his  sarcastic  demon. 
Was  he  a  sybarite  ?  Many  a  poor  scribbler  has  earned 
bed  and  breakfast  with  numb  fingers.  The  fire  in  his 
body  would  serve  him  for  an  hour  or  two. 

So  he  sat  down,  and  achieved  his  task  to  the  last  sylla- 
ble. He  read  it  through,  corrected  it,  made  it  up  for  post, 
and  rose  with  the  plaudits  of  conscience.  "  Who  shall  say 
now  that  I  am  a  fop  and  a  weakling  ? " 

Half-past  seven.  Good ;  just  time  enough  to  appease 
his  hunger  and  reach  Grove  Lane  by  the  suitable  hour. 
He  went  out  to  the  little  coffee-shop  which  was  his  resort 
in  Spartan  moods,  ate  with  considerable  appetite,  and 
walked  over  Westminster  Bridge  to  the  Camberwell  tram. 
To  kill  time  on  the  journey  he  bought  a  halfpenny  paper. 

As  he  ascended  Grove  Lane  his  heart  throbbed  more 
than  the  exercise  warranted.  At  the  door  of  the  house, 
which  he  had  never  yet  entered,  and  which  he  had  not 
looked  upon  for  more  than  a  year,  he  stood  to  calm  him- 
self, with  lips  set  and  cheek  pale  in  the  darkness.  Then  a 
confident  peal  at  the  knocker. 

It  was  Mary  who  opened.  He  had  never  seen  her, 
but  knew  that  this  grave,  hard-featured  person,  not  totally 
unlike  a  born  gentlewoman,  must  be  Mary  Woodruff. 


332  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

And  in  her  eyes  he  read  a  suspicion  of  his  own  iden- 
tity. 

u  Is  Miss  Lord  at  home  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way. 

"  Yes. — What  name  shall  I  mention  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Tarrant." 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  she  requested  him  to  enter,  to  wait 
in  the  hall  for  a  moment,  then  went  upstairs.  She  was 
absent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  on  returning  asked  him  to 
follow  her.  She  led  to  the  drawing-room :  on  the  way, 
Tarrant  felt  a  surprise  that  in  so  small  a  house  the 
drawing-room  should  be  correctly  situated  on  the  upper 
floor. 

Here  he  had  again  to  wait.  A  comfortable  room,  he 
thought,  and  with  a  true  air  of  home  about  it.  He  knew 
how  significant  is  this  impression  first  received  on  enter- 
ing a  strange  abode  ;  home  or  encampment,  attraction  or 
repulsion,  according  to  the  mind  of  the  woman  who  rules 
there.  Was  it  Nancy,  or  Mary,  who  made  the  atmosphere 
of  the  house  ? 

The  door  opened,  and  he  faced  towards  it. 

Nancy's  dress  had  an  emphasis  of  fashion  formerly  un- 
known to  it ;  appropriate  enough  considering  her  new  oc- 
cupation. The  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  the  light  of  doubt- 
ful meaning  in  her  eyes,  gave  splendour  to  a  beauty 
matured  by  motherhood.  In  the  dark  street,  a  fortnight 
ago,  Tarrant  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  seen  her ;  he 
gazed  in  wonder  and  admiration. 

"  What  has  brought  you  here  ? " 

"  A  cause  quite  sufficient. — This  is  a  little  house  ;  can 
we  talk  without  being  overheard  ? " 

"  You  can  shout  if  you  wish  to,"  she  answered  flippant- 
ly. "  The  servant  is  out,  and  Mary  is  downstairs." 

Nancy  did  not  seat  herself,  and  offered  no  seat  to  the 
visitor. 

"  Why  have  you  made  yourself  a  shop-girl  ?  " 

"I  didn't  know  that  I  had." 

"  I  am  told  you  go  daily  to  some  shop  or  other." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  333 

"  I  am  engaged  at  a  place  of  business,  but  I  don't. — 
However,  that  doesn't  matter.  What  business  is  it  of 
yours  ? " 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Luckworth  Crewe  ? " 

Nancy  kept  her  eyes  still  more  resolutely  fronting  his 
severe  look. 

"  A  man  I  used  to  know." 

"  You  don't  see  him  nowadays  ? " 

"  It's  many  months  since  I  saw  him." 

"Who,  then,  is  the  woman  who  has  told  him  your 
whole  story — with  embellishments,  and  who  says  she  has 
had  it  from  you  yourself  ? " 

Nancy  was  speechless. 

"  I  don't  say  there  is  any  such  person,"  Tarrant  con- 
tinued. "  The  man  may  have  lied  in  that  particular.  But 
he  has  somehow  got  to  know  a  good  deal  about  you, — 
where  and  when  your  child  was  born,  where  it  is  now, 
where  I  live,  and  so  on.  And  all  this  he  has  reported  to 
your  aunt,  Mrs.  Damerel." 

"  To  her  ? — How  do  you  know  ? " 

For  answer  he  held  out  Mrs.  Damerel's  note  of  invita- 
tion, then  added : 

u  I  have  been  with  her  this  afternoon.  She  is  coming 
to  offer  you  her  protection  against  the  scoundrel  who  has 
ruined  you,  and  who  is  now  living  upon  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

u  That's  the  form  the  story  has  taken,  either  in  Mr. 
Crewe's  mind,  or  in  that  of  the  woman  who  told  it  to 
him." 

"  Don't  they  know  that  I  am  married  ?  " 

"  Evidently  not." 

"  And  they  think  you — are  having  money  from  me  ? " 

"That's  how  they  explain  your  taking  a  place  in  a 
shop." 

Nancy  laughed,  and  laughed  again. 

"  How  ridiculous  !  " 

"  I'm  glad  you  can  get  amusement  out  of  it.     Perhaps 
you  can  suggest  how  the  joke  began  ? " 
22 


334:  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

She  moved  a  few  steps,  then  turned  again  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  know  who  the  woman  must  be.  It's  Beatrice 
French." 

"  A  bosom  friend  of  yours,  of  course." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  But  you  have  taken  her  into  your  confidence — up  to 
a  certain  point  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  told  her.  And  she  told  Mr.  Ore  we  ?  I 
understand  that.  Well,  what  does  it  matter  ? " 

Tarrant  was  at  a  loss  to  interpret  this  singular  levity. 
He  had  never  truly  believed  that  reading  of  Nancy's  char- 
acter by  means  of  which  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that 
his  marriage  was  an  unmitigated  calamity,  and  a  final 
parting  between  them  the  best  thing  that  could  happen. 
His  memories  of  her,  and  the  letters  she  had  written  him, 
coloured  her  personality  far  otherwise.  Yet  was  not  the 
harsh  judgment  after  all  the  true  one  ? 

*"  It  doesn't  matter  to  you,"  he  said,  "  that  people  think 
you  an  unmarried  mother, — that  people  are  talking  about 
you  with  grins  and  sneers  ? " 

Nancy  reddened  in  angry  shame. 

"Let  them  talk!"  she  exclaimed  violently.  "What 
does  it  matter,  so  long  as  they  don't  know  I'm  married  ? " 

"  So  long  as  they  don't  know  ? — How  came  you  to  tell 
this  woman  ? " 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  told  her  for  amusement  ?  She 
found  out  what  had  happened  at  Falmouth, — found  out 
simply  by  going  down  there  and  making  inquiries;  be- 
cause she  suspected  me  of  some  secret  affair  with  a  man 
she  wants  to  marry  herself — this  Mr.  Crewe.  The  wonder 
of  wonders  is  that  no  one  else  got  to  know  of  it  in  that 
way.  Any  one  who  cared  much  what  happened  to  me 
would  have  seen  the  all  but  impossibility  of  keeping  such 
a  secret." 

It  is  a  notable  instance  of  evolutionary  process  that  the 
female  mind,  in  wrath,  flies  to  just  those  logical  ineptitudes 
which  most  surely  exasperate  the  male  intelligence.  Tar- 
rant  gave  a  laugh  of  irate  scorn. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  335 

"  Why,  you  told  me  the  other  day  that  I  cared  particu- 
larly whether  your  secret  was  discovered  or  not — that  I 
only  married  you  in  the  hope  of  profiting  by  it  ? " 

"  Wouldn't  any  woman  think  so  ?  " 

u  I  hope  not.  I  believe  there  are  some  women  who 
don't  rush  naturally  to  a  base  supposition." 

"  Did  I  ? "  Nancy  exclaimed,  with  a  vehement  passion 
that  made  her  breast  heave.  "Didn't  I  give  you  time 
enough — believe  in  you  until  I  could  believe  no  longer  ? " 

The  note  of  her  thrilling  voice  went  to  Tarrant's  heart, 
and  his  head  drooped. 

"  That  may  be  true,"  he  said  gravely.  "  But  go  on  with 
your  explanation.  This  woman  came  to  you,  and  told  you 
what  she  had  discovered  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  allowed  her  to  think  you  unmarried  ? " 

"  What  choice  had  I  ?  How  was  my  child  to  be 
brought  up  if  I  lost  everything  ? " 

"  Good  God,  Nancy !  Did  you  imagine  I  should  leave 
you  to  starve  ? " 

His  emotion,  his  utterance  of  her  name,  caused  her  to 
examine  him  with  a  kind  of  wonder. 

"  How  did  I  know  ? — How  could  I  tell,  at  that  time, 
whether  you  were  alive  or  dead  ? — I  had  to  think  of  my- 
self and  the  child." 

"  My  poor  girl ! " 

The  words  fell  from  him  involuntarily.  Nancy's  look 
became  as  scornful  and  defiant  as  before. 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing.  .I've  gone  through  a  good  deal 
more  than  that." 

"  Stop.  Tell  me  this.  Have  you  in  your  anger — anger 
natural  enough — allowed  yourself  to  speak  to  any  one 
about  me  in  the  way  I  should  never  forgive  ?  In  the 
spirit  of  your  letter,  I  mean.  Did  you  give  this  Beatrice 
French  any  ground  for  thinking  that  I  made  a  specula- 
tion of  you  ? " 

"  I  said  nothing  of  that  kind." 

"  Nor  to  any  one  else  ? " 


336  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

u  To  no  one." 

"Yet  you  told  this  woman  where  I  was  living,  and 
that  I  had  been  abroad  for  a  long  time.  Why  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  told  her  so  much  about  you,"  Nancy  replied. 
"  Not  when  she  first  came  to  me,  but  afterwards— only  the 
other  day.  I  wanted  employment,  and  didn't  know  how 
to  get  it,  except  through  her.  She  promised  me  a  place  if 
I  would  disclose  your  name ;  not  that  she  knew  or  cared 
anything  about  you,  but  because  she  still  had  suspicions 
about  Mr.  Ore  we.  I  was  desperate,  and  I  told  her." 

"Desperate?    Why?" 

"  How  can  I  make  you  understand  what  I  have  gone 
through  ?  What  do  you  care  ?  And  what  do  I  care 
whether  you  understand  or  not  ?  It  wasn't  for  money, 
and  Beatrice  French  knew  it  wasn't." 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  that  you  could  not  bear  the 
monotony  of  your  life." 

Her  answer  was  a  short,  careless  laugh. 

"  Where  is  this  shop  ?    What  do  you  do  ? " 

"  It's  a  dress-supply  association.  I  advise  fools  about 
the  fashions,  and  exhibit  myself  as  a  walking  fashion- 
plate.  I  can't  see  how  it  should  interest  you." 

"Whatever  concerns  you,  Nancy,  interests  me  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

Again  she  laughed. 

"  What  more  do  you  want  to  know  ? " 

She  was  half  turned  from  him,  leaning  at  the  mantel- 
piece, a  foot  on  the  fender. 

"  You  said  just  now  that  you  have  gone  through  worse 
things  than  the  shame  of  being  thought  unmarried.  Tell 
me  about  it  all." 

"  Not  I,  indeed.  When  I  was  willing  to  tell  you  every- 
thing, you  didn't  care  to  hear  it.  It's  too  late  now." 

"It's  not  too  late,  happily,  to  drag  you  out  of  this 
wretched  slough  into  which  you  are  sinking.  Whatever 
the  cost,  that  shall  be  done  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  not  disposed  to  let  any  one  drag  me 
anywhere.  I  want  no  help ;  and  if  I  did,  you  would  be 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  337 

the  last  person  I  should  accept  it  from.  I  don't  know  why 
you  came  here  after  the  agreement  we  made  the  other 
night." 

Tarrant  stepped  towards  her. 

"  I  came  to  find  out  whether  you  were  telling  lies  about 
me,  and  I  should  never  have  thought  it  possible  but  for 
my  bad  conscience.  I  know  you  had  every  excuse  for 
being  embittered  and  for  acting  revengefully.  It  seems 
you  have  only  told  lies  about  yourself.  As,  after  all,  you 
are  my  wife,  I  shan't  allow  that." 

Once  more  she  turned  upon  him  passionately. 

"  I  am  not  your  wife  !  You  married  me  against  your 
will,  and  shook  me  off  as  soon  as  possible.  I  won't  be 
bound  to  you  ;  I  shall  act  as  a  free  woman." 

"  Bound  to  me  you  are,  and  shall  be — as  I  to  you." 

"  You  may  say  it  fifty  times,  and  it  will  mean  nothing. 
— How  bound  to  you  ?  Bound  to  share  my  money  ? " 

"I  forgive  you  that,  because  I  have  treated  you  ill. 
You  don't  mean  it  either.  You  know  I  am  incapable  of 
such  a  thought.  But  that  shall  very  soon  be  put  right. 
Your  marriage  shall  be  made  known  at  once." 

"  Known  to  whom  ?  " 

"  To  the  people  concerned — to  your  guardians." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 
"  They  know  it  already.'" 

Tarrant  half  closed  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  What's  the  use  of  such  a  silly  falsehood  ? " 

"  I  told  you  I  had  gone  through  a  good  deal  more  than 
you  imagined.  I  have  struggled  to  keep  my  money,  in 
spite  of  shames  and  miseries,  and  I  will  have  it  for  myself 
—and  my  child !  If  you  want  to  know  the  truth,  go  to 
Samuel  Barmby,  and  ask  him  what  he  has  had  to  do  with 
me.  I  owe  no  explanation  to  you." 

"  You  don't  owe  it  me,  Nancy ;  but  if  I  beg  you  to  tell 
me  all — because  I  have  come  to  my  senses  again — because 
I  know  how  foolish  and  cruel  I  have  been " 

"  Remember  what  we  agreed.  Go  your  way,  and  let 
me  go  mine." 


338  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  what  I  was  agreeing  to.  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  your  marriage  was  strictly  a  secret,  and  that 
you  might  be  free  in  the  real  sense  if  you  chose." 

"  Yes,  and  you  were  quite  willing,  because  it  gave  you 
your  freedom  as  well.  I  am  as  free  as  I  wish  to  be.  I 
have  made  a  life  for  myself  that  satisfies  me — and  now 
you  come  to  undo  everything.  I  won't  be  tormented — I 
have  endured  enough." 

"  Then  only  one  course  is  open  to  me.  I  shall  publish 
your  marriage  everywhere.  I  shall  make  a  home  for  you, 
and  have  the  child  brought  to  it ;  then  come  or  not,  as  you 
please." 

At  mention  of  the  child  Nancy  regarded  him  with  cold 
curiosity. 

"  How  are  you  to  make  a  home  for  me  ?  I  thought  you 
had  difficulty  enough  in  supporting  yourself." 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  yours.  It  shall  be  done,  and  in 
a  day  or  two.  Then  make  your  choice." 

"  You  think  I  can  be  forced  to  live  with  a  man  I  don't 
love  ? " 

"  I  shouldn't  dream  of  living  with  a  woman  who  didn't 
love  me.  But  you  are  married,  and  a  mother,  and  the  se- 
crecy that  is  degrading  you  shall  come  to  an  end.  Ac- 
knowledge me  or  not,  I  shall  acknowledge  you,  and  make 
it  known  that  I  am  to  blame  for  all  that  has  happened." 

"  And  what  good  will  you  do  ? " 

"  I  shall  do  good  to  myself,  at  all  events.  I'm  a  selfish 
fellow,  and  shall  be  so  to  the  end,  no  doubt." 

Nancy  glanced  at  him  to  interpret  the  speech  by  his 
expression.  He  was  smiling. 

"What  good  will  it  do  you  to  have  to  support  me? 
The  selfishness  I  see  in  it  is  your  wishing  to  take  me  from 
a  comfortable  home  and  make  me  poor." 

"  That  can't  be  helped.  And,  what's  more,  you  won't 
think  it  a  hardship." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  I  have  borne  dreadful 
degradations  rather  than  lose  my  money." 

"  That  was  for  the  child's  sake,  not  for  your  own." 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  339 

He  said  it  softly  and  kindly,  and  for  the  first  time 
Nancy  met  his  eyes  without  defiance. 

u  It  was  ;  I  could  always  have  earned  my  own  living, 
somehow." 

Tarrant  paused  a  moment,  then  spoke  with  look  averted. 

"  Is  he  well,  and  properly  cared  for  ? " 

"If  he  were  not  well  and  safe,  I  shouldn't  be  away 
from  him." 

"  When  will  you  let  me  see  him,  Nancy  ? " 

She  did  not  smile,  but  there  was  a  brightening"  of  her 
countenance,  which  she  concealed.  Tarrant  stepped  to 
her  side. 

"  Dear — my  own  love — will  you  try  to  forgive  me  ?  It 
was  all  my  cursed  laziness.  It  would  never  have  happened 
if  I  hadn't  fallen  into  poverty.  Poverty  is  the  devil,  and 
it  overcame  me." 

"  How  can  you  think  that  I  shall  be  strong  enough  to 
face  it  ? "  she  asked,  moving  half  a  step  away.  "  Leave  me 
to  myself ;  I  am  contented ;  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
about  what  is  before  me,  and  I  won't  go  through  all  that 
again." 

Tired  of  standing,  she  dropped  upon  the  nearest  chair, 
and  lay  back. 

"  You  can't  be  contented,  Nancy,  in  a  position  that  dis- 
honours you.  From  what  you  tell  me,  it  seems  that  your 
secret  is  no  secret  at  all.  Will  you  compel  me  to  go  to 
that  man  Barmby  and  seek  information  from  him  about 
my  own  wife  ? " 

"  I  have  had  to  do  worse  things  than  that." 

"  Don't  torture  me  by  such  vague  hints.  I  entreat  you 
to  tell  me  at  once  the  worst  that  you  have  suffered.  How 
did  Barmby  get  to  know  of  your  marriage  ?  And  why 
has  he  kept  silent  about  it  ?  There  can't  be  anything  that 
you  are  ashamed  to  say." 

"  No.     The  shame  is  all  yours." 

"  I  take  it  upon  myself,  all  of  it ;  I  ought  never  to  have 
left  you  ;  but  that  baseness  followed  only  too  naturally  on 
the  cowardice  which  kept  me  from  declaring  our  marriage 


340  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

jwhen  honour  demanded  it.  I  have  played  a  contemptible 
part  in  this  story  ;  don't  refuse  to  help  me  now  that  I  am 
ready  to  behave  more  like  a  man.  Put  your  hand  in 
mine,  and  let  us  be  friends,  if  we  mayn't  be  more." 

She  sat  irresponsive. 

"  You  were  a  brave  girl.  You  consented  to  my  going 
away  because  it  seemed  best,  and  I  took  advantage  of  your 
sincerity.  Often  enough  that  last  look  of  yours  has  re- 
proached me.  I  wonder  how  I  had  the  heart  to  leave  you 
alone." 

Nancy  raised  herself,  and  said  coldly : 

"It  was  what  I  might  have  expected.  I  had  only 
my  own  folly  to  thank.  You  behaved  as  most  men 
would." 

This  was  a  harder  reproach  than  any  yet.  Tarrant 
winced  under  it.  He  would  much  rather  have  been  ac- 
cused of  abnormal  villainy. 

"  And  I  was  foolish,"  continued  Nancy,  "  in  more  ways 
than  you  knew.  You  feared  I  had  told  Jessica  Morgan  of 
our  marriage,  and  you  were  right ;  of  course  I  denied  it. 
She  has  been  the  cause  of  my  worst  trouble." 

In  rapid  sentences  she  told  the  story  of  her  successive 
humiliations,  recounted  her  sufferings  at  the  hands  of  Jes- 
sica and  Beatrice  and  Samuel  Barmby.  When  she  ceased, 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Has  Barmby  been  here  again  ? "  Tarrant  asked  sternly. 

"  Yes.  He  has  been  twice,  and  talked  in  just  the  same 
way,  and  I  had  to  sit  still  before  him " 

"  Has  he  said  one  word  that ? " 

"  No,  110,"  she  interrupted  hastily.  "  He's  only  a  fool- 
not  man  enough  to — 

"  That  saves  me  trouble,"  said  Tarrant ;  "  I  have  only 
to  treat  him  like  a  fool.  My  poor  darling,  what  vile  tor- 
ments you  have  endured !  And  you  pretend  that  you 
would  rather  live  on  this  fellow's  interested  generosity — 
for,  of  course,  he  hopes  to  be  rewarded — than  throw  the 
whole  squalid  entanglement  behind  you  and  be  a  free, 
honest  woman,  even  if  a  poor  one  ? " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  341 

"  I  see  no  freedom." 

"  You  have  lost  all  your  love  for  me.  Well,  I  can't 
complain  of  that.  But  bear  my  name  you  shall,  and  be 
supported  by  me.  I  tell  you  that  it  was  never  possible  for 
me  actually  to  desert  you  and  the  little  one — never  possi- 
ble. I  shirked  a  duty  as  long  as  I  could;  that's  all  it 
comes  to.  I  loafed  and  paltered  until  the  want  of  a  dinner 
drove  me  into  honesty.  Try  to  forget  it,  dear  Nancy. 
Try  to  forgive  me,  my  dearest ! " 

She  was  dry-eyed  again,  and  his  appeal  seemed  to  have 
no  power  over  her  emotions. 

"  You  are  forgetting,"  she  said  practically,  "  that  I  have 
lived  on  money  to  which  I  had  no  right,  and  that  I — or 
you — can  be  forced  to  repay  it." 

"Repaid  it  must  be,  whether  demanded  or  not. 
Where  does  Barmby  live  ?  Perhaps  I  could  see  him 
to-night." 

"  What  means  have  you  of  keeping  us  all  alive  ? " 

"  Some  of  my  work  has  been  accepted  here  and  there ; 
but  there's  something  else  I  have  in  mind.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  become  a  poverty-stricken  wife  in  the  ordinary 
way.  I  can't  afford  to  take  a  house.  I  must  put  you,  with 
the  child,  into  as  good  lodgings  as  I  can  hope  to  pay  for, 
and  work  on  by  myself,  just  seeing  you  as  often  as  you 
will  let  me.  Even  if  you  were  willing,  it  would  be  a  mis- 
take for  us  to  live  together.  For  one  thing,  I  couldn't 
work  under  such  conditions ;  for  another,  it  would  make 
you  a  slave.  Tell  me :  are  you  willing  to  undertake  the 
care  of  the  child,  if  nothing  else  is  asked  of  you  ? " 

Nancy  gave  him  a  disdainful  smile,  a  smile  like  those 
of  her  girlhood. 

"  I'm  not  quite  so  feeble  a  creature  as  you  think  me." 

"You  would  rather  have  the  child  to  yourself,  than  be 
living  away  from  him  ? " 

"  If  you  have  made  up  your  mind,  why  trouble  to  ask 
such  questions  ? " 

"Because  I  have  no  wish  to  force  burdens  upon 
you.  You  said  just  now  that  you  could  see  little  pros- 


34:2  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

pect  of   freedom  in  such  a  life  as  I  have  to  offer  you. 
I  thought  you  perhaps  meant  that  the  care  of  the  child 

would " 

"  I  meant  nothing,"  Nancy  broke  in,  with  fretful  im- 
patience. 

"  Where  is  he — our  boy  ? " 

"  At  Dulwich.     I  told  you  that  in  my  last  letter." 
"Yes — yes.     I  thought  you  might  have  changed." 
"I  couldn't  have  found  a  better,  kinder  woman.     Can 
you  guess  how  many  answers  I  had  to  the  advertisement  ? 
Thirty-two." 

"Of  course  five-and-twenty  of  them  took  it  for 
granted  you  would  pay  so  much  a  week  and  ask  110 
questions.  They  would  just  not  have  starved  the  baby, — 
unless  you  had  hinted  to  them  that  you  .were  willing 
to  pay  a  lump  sum  for  a  death-certificate,  in  which  case 
the  affair  would  have  been  more  or  less  skilfully  man- 


"Mary  knew  all  about  that.  She  came  from  Fal- 
mouth,  and  spent  two  days  in  visiting  people.  I  knew  I 
could  re^ly  on  her  judgment.  There  were  only  four  or  five 
people  she  cared  to  see  at  all,  and  of  these  only  one  that 
seemed  trustworthy." 

"To  be  sure.  One  out  of  two-and-thirty.  A  higher 
percentage  than  would  apply  to  mankind  at  large,  I  dare 
say.  By-the-bye,  I  was  afraid  you  might  have  found  a 
difficulty  in  registering  the  birth." 

"  No.  I  went  to  the  office  myself,  the  morning  that  I 
was  leaving  Falmouth,  and  the  registrar  evidently  knew 
nothing  about  me.  It  isn't  such  a  small  place  that  every- 
body living  there  is  noticed  and  talked  of." 

"  And  Mary  took  the  child  straight  to  Dulwich  ? " 

"Two  days  before  I  came, — so  as  to  have  the  house 
ready  for  me." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  unfortunate,  Nancy,  that  you  had  so 
good  a  friend.  But  for  that,  I  should  have  suffered  more 
uneasiness  about  you." 

She  answered  with  energy : 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  343 

"  There  is  no  husband  in  the  world  worth  such  a  friend 
as  Mary." 

At  this  Tarrant  first  smiled,  then  laughed.  Nancy 
kept  her  lips  rigid.  It  happened  that  he  again  saw  her 
face  in  exact  profile,  and  again  it  warmed  the  current  of 
his  blood. 

"  Some  day  you  shall  think  better  of  that." 

She  paid  no  attention.     Watching  her,  he  asked : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  so  earnestly  ? " 

Her  answer  was  delayed  a  little,  but  she  said  at  length, 
with  an  absent  manner : 

"  Horace  might  lend  me  the  money  to  pay  back  what  I 
owe." 

"  Your  brother  ?— If  he  can  afford  it,  there  would  be 
less  objection  to  that  than  to  any  other  plan  I  can  think 
of.  But  I  must  ask  it  myself ;  you  shall  beg  no  more  fa- 
vours. I  will  ask  it  in  your  presence." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Nancy  replied 
drily.  "  If  you  think  to  please  me  by  humiliating  your- 
self, you  are  very  much  mistaken.  And  you  mustn't 
imagine  that  I  put  myself  into  your  hands  to  be  looked 
after  as  though  I  had  no  will  of  my  own.  With  the  past 
you  have  nothing  to  do, — with  my  past,  at  all  events. 
Care  for  the  future  as  you  like." 

"  But  I  must  see  your  guardians." 

"  No.     I  won't  have  that." 

She  stood  up  to  emphasise  her  words. 

"I  must.  It's  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  satisfy 
myself " 

"  Then  I  refuse  to  take  a  step,"  said  Nancy.  "  Leave 
all  that  to  me,  and  I  will  go  to  live  where  you  please,  and 
never  grumble,  however  poor  I  am.  Interfere,  and  I 
will  go  on  living  as  now,  on  Samuel  Barmby's  gener- 
osity." 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  resolution.  Tarrant  hesi- 
tated, and  bit  his  lip. 

"  How  long,  then,  before  you  act  ? "  he  inquired 
abruptly. 


344  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"When  my  new  home  is  found,  I  am  ready  to  go 
there." 

"  You  will  deal  honestly  with  me  ?  You  will  tell 
every  one,  and  give  up  everything  not  strictly  yours  ? " 

"  I  have  done  with  lies,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Thank  heaven,  so  have  I ! " 


PART  SIXTH— A    VIRTUE   OF  NECESSITY. 


UPON  the  final  tempest  in  De  Crespigny  Park  there 
followed,  for  Arthur  Peachey,  a  calmer  and  happier  season 
than  he  had  ever  known.  To  have  acted  with  stern  resolve 
is  always  a  satisfaction,  especially  to  the  man  conscious  of 
weak  good-nature,  and  condemned  for  the  most  part  to 
yield.  In  his  cheap  lodging  at  Clapham,  Peachey  awoke 
each  morning  with  a  vague  sense  of  joy,  which  became 
delight  as  soon  as  he  had  collected  his  senses.  He  was  a 
free  man.  No  snarl  greeted  him  as  he  turned  his  head 
upon  the  pillow;  he  could  lie  and  meditate,  could  rise 
quietly  when  the  moment  sounded,  could  go  downstairs  to 
a  leisurely  meal,  cheered  perhaps  by  a  letter  reporting  that 
all  was  well  with  his  dear  little  son.  Simple,  elementary 
pleasures,  but  how  he  savoured  them  after  his  years  of 
sordid  bondage ! 

It  was  the  blessedness  of  divorce,  without  squalid  pub- 
licity. It  was  the  vast  relief  of  widowerhood,  without 
dreary  memories  of  death  and  burial. 

In  releasing  himself  from  such  companionship,  the 
man  felt  as  though  he  had  washed  and  become  clean. 

Innocent  of  scientific  speculation,  he  had  the  misfor- 
tune about  this  time  to  read  in  paper  or  magazine  some- 
thing on  the  subject  of  heredity,  the  idle  verbiage  of  some 
half -informed  scribbler.  It  set  him  anxiously  thinking 
whether  his  son  would  develop  the  vices  of  the  mother's 
mind,  and  from  that  day  he  read  all  the  printed  chatter 
regarding  natural  inheritance  that  he  could  lay  his  hands 

345 


346  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

on.  The  benefit  he  derived  from  this  course  of  study  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  might  have  been  expected  ;  it 
supplied  him  with  a  new  trouble,  which  sometimes  kept 
him  wakeful.  He  could  only  resolve  that  his  boy  should 
have  the  best  education  procurable  for  money,  if  he  starved 
himself  in  providing  it. 

He  had  begun  to  live  with  the  utmost  economy,  and 
for  a  twofold  reason  :  the  business  of  Messrs.  Ducker, 
Blunt  &  Co.  threatened  a  decline,  and,  this  apart,  he  de- 
sired to  get  out  of  it,  to  obtain  an  interest  in  some  more 
honourable  concern.  For  a  long  time  it  had  been  known 
to  him  that  the  disinfectants  manufactured  by  his  firm 
were  far  from  trustworthy,  and  of  late  the  complaints  of 
purchasers  had  become  frequent.  With  the  manufactur- 
ing department  he  had  nothing  to  do ;  he  tried  to  think 
himself  free  from  responsibility ;  for,  in  spite  of  amiable 
qualities,  he  was  a  man  of  business,  and  saw  a  great  part 
of  life  through  the  commercial  spectacles  commonly  worn 
nowadays.  Nevertheless  conscience  unsettled  him.  One 
day  he  heard  his  partners  joking  over  the  legislative 
omission  by  virtue  of  which  they  were  able  to  adulterate 
their  disinfectants  to  any  extent  without  fear  of  penalty ; 
their  laughter  grated  upon  him,  and  he  got  out  of  the 
way.  If  he  could  lay  aside  a  few  thousands  of  pounds, 
assuredly  his  connection  with  the  affair  should  be  termi- 
nated. So  he  lived,  for  his  own  part,  on  a  pound  a  week, 
and  informed  Ada  through  his  solicitor  that  she  must  be 
satisfied  with  a  certain  very  moderate  allowance. 

Mrs.  Peachey  naturally  laid  herself  out  to  give  every 
one  as  much  trouble  as  possible.  Insulting  post-cards 
showered  upon  her  husband  at  his  place  of  business.  After 
a  few  weeks  she  discovered  his  lodging,  and  addressed  the 
post-cards  thither ;  but  she  made  no  attempt  at  personal 
molestation.  The  loss  of  her  child  gave  her  not  the 
slightest  concern,  yet  she  determined  to  find  out  where 
the  boy  was  living.  She  remembered  that  Peachey  had 
relatives  at  Canterbury,  and  after  a  troublesome  search 
succeeded  in  her  purpose.  An  interview  with  her  hus- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  347 

band's  married  sister  proved  so  unsatisfactory  to  Ada,  that 
she  had  recourse  to  her  familiar  weapons,  rage,  insult,  and 
meiiance ;  with  the  result  that  she  was  forcibly  removed, 
and  made  a  scandal  in  the  quiet  street. 

Then  she  consulted  men  of  law,  and  found  one  who 
encouraged  her  to  sue  for  restitution  of  conjugal  rights. 
It  came  to  nothing,  however ;  for  in  the  meantime  she  was 
growing  tired  of  her  solitary  existence, — friends  of  course 
she  had  none, — and  the  spirit  moved  her  to  try  a  change 
of  tactics. 

She  wrote  a  long,  long  letter,  penitent,  tear-bestained. 
u  I  have  behaved  outrageously  to  you,  dearest  Arthur ;  I 
must  have  been  mad  to  say  and  do  such  things.  The 
doctor  tells  me  that  my  health  has  been  in  a  very  bad 
state  for  a  long  time,  and  I  really  don't  remember  half  that 
has  happened.  You  were  quite  right  when  you  told  me 
that  I  should  be  better  if  I  didn't  live  such  an  idle  life,  and 
I  have  quite,  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  be  an  industrious 
and  a  good  woman.  All  yesterday  I  spent  in  needlework 
and  crying.  Oh,  the  tears  that  I  have  shed  !  My  darling 
husband,  what  can  I  do  to  win  your  forgiveness  ?  Do  con- 
sider how  lonely  I  am  in  this  house.  Beatrice  has  been 
horrid  to  me.  If  I  said  all  I  think  about  her,  she  wouldn't 
like  to  hear  it ;  but  I  am  learning  to  control  my  tongue. 
She  lives  alone  in  a  flat,  and  has  men  to  spend  every  even- 
ing with  her ;  it's  disgraceful !  And  there's  Fanny,  who  I 
am  sure  is  leading  an  immoral  life  abroad.  Of  course  I 
shall  never  speak  to  her  again.  You  were  quite  right 
when  you  said  my  sisters  were  worthless." — Peachey  had 
never  permitted  himself  any  such  remark. — "  I  will  have 
no  one  but  you,  my  dear,  good,  sweet  husband." 

So  on,  over  several  pages.  Reading  it,  the  husband 
stood  aghast  at  this  new  revelation  of  female  possibilities ; 
at  the  end,  he  hurriedly  threw  it  into  the  fire,  fearing,  and 
with  good  reason,  that  weakness  in  his  own  character  to 
which  the  woman  addressed  herself. 

Every  day  for  a  week  there  arrived  a  replica  of  this 
epistle,  and  at  length  he  answered.  It  was  the  fatal  con- 


34:8  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

cession.  Though  he  wrote  with  almost  savage  severity, 
Ada  replied  in  terms  of  exuberant  gratitude.  Oh,  how  de- 
lighted she  was  to  see  his  dear  handwriting  once  more ! 
How  it  reminded  her  of  happy  days,  when  they  loved  each 
other  so  tenderly!  Then  came  two  strophes  of  a  senti- 
mental drawing-room  song,  and  lastly  an  impassioned  ap- 
peal to  be  allowed  to  see  her  husband,  were  it  only  for  five 
minutes. 

Another  week  of  such  besieging,  and  the  poor  fellow's 
foolish  heart  gave  way.  He  would  see  the  wretched 
woman,  and  tell  her  that,  though  never  could  he  consent 
to  live  with  her  again,  he  had  no  malicious  feeling,  and 
was  willing  to  be  her  friend  at  a  distance.  So,  at  six 
o'clock  one  evening,  behold  him  tremulously  approaching 
the  house  in  De  Crespigny  Park, — tremulously,  because 
he  dreaded  the  assault  upon  his  emotions  to  which  he  so 
recklessly  exposed  himself.  He  was  admitted  by  a  very 
young  servant,  in  a  very  clean  cap  and  apron.  Silence 
possessed  the  dwelling ;  he  did  not  venture  to  tread  with 
natural  step.  He  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  there, 
from  amid  a  heap  of  household  linen  which  required  the 
needle,  rose  the  penitent  wife.  Ostentatiously  she  drew 
from  her  finger  a  thimble,  then  advanced  with  head  bent. 

"  How  kind  of  you,  Arthur !     How — how  very — 

And  she  was  dissolved  in  tears — so  genuine,  that  they 
marked  pale  rillets  across  the  bloom  of  her  cheeks. 

About  a  month  after  that  the  furniture  was  removed 
from  De  Crespigny  Park  to  a  much  smaller  house  at 
Brixton,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peachey  took  up  their  abode 
together. 

On  one  point  only  the  man  had  held  to  a  rational  re- 
solve ;  he  would  not  allow  his  little  son  to  be  brought 
back  to  London,  away  from  the  home  where  he  was  hap- 
py and  thriving.  Out  of  mere  self-will  Ada  strove  for  a 
long  time  to  overcome  this  decision ;  finding  argument 
and  artifice  of  no  avail,  she  dropped  the  matter.  Peachey 
owed  this  triumph  largely  to  the  firm  commonsense  of  his 
sister,  who  plainly  refused  to  let  the  little  fellow  quit  her 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  349 

care  for  that  of  such  a  woman  as  he  was  unfortunate 
enough  to  call  mother. 

Christmas  came,  and  with  it  an  unanticipated  call 
from  Miss  Fanny  French,  who  said  she  had  lately  recov- 
ered from  a  serious  illness  in  Paris ;  it  had  left  her  hag- 
gard and  thin,  but  by  no  means  deficient  in  vivacity.  No 
veritable  information  as  to  her  past  and  present  could  be 
gleaned  from  the  mixture  of  French  and  English  which 
she  ceaselessly  gabbled.  She  had  come  over  for  Christ- 
mas, that  was  all ;  could  not  dream  of  returning  to  live  in 
wretched  England.  At  Brussels  and  in  Paris  she  had 
made  hosts  of  friends,  just  the  right  sort  of  people. 

Ada  told  her  all  the  news.  Of  most  interest  was  that 
which  related  to  Nancy  Lord.  Only  a  month  ago  it  had 
become  known  that  Nancy  was  married,  and  the  mother 
of  a  child. 

"  The  Barmbys  found  it  out  somehow,"  Ada  narrated. 
"  She  was  married  to  a  man  called  Tarrant,  some  one  we 
never  heard  of,  on  the  very  day  of  her  father's  death,  and, 
of  course,  before  she  knew  anything  about  his  will.  Then, 
of  course,  it  had  to  be  kept  dark,  or  she'd  lose  all  her 
money.  Her  husband  hadn't  a  farthing.  She  supported 
him,  and  they  say  he  lived  most  of  the  time  in  her  house. 
He's  a  regular  scamp,  a  drinking,  betting  fellow.  Well, 
it  all  came  out,  and  the  Barmbys  turned  her  into  the  street 
at  a  moment's  notice — served  her  right ! " 

Fanny  shrieked  with  merriment. 

"  And  what  is  she  doing  ?  " 

"  She  went  on  her  knees  to  Beatrice,  and  begged  for  a 
place  at  the  shop,  if  it  was  only  a  few  shillings  a  week. 
Nice  come-down  for  Nancy  Lord,  wasn't  it  ?  Of  course 
Beatrice  sent  her  off  with  a  flea  in  her  ear.  I  don't  know 
where  she's  living,  but  I've  heard  that  her  husband  has 
gone  to  America,  and  left  her  to  shift  for  herself,  now 
there's  nothing  more  to  be  got  out  of  her." 

For  supplementary  details  of  this  racy  narrative, 
Fanny  sought  out  Beatrice ;  but  to  her  astonishment  and 
annoyance  Beatrice  would  tell  nothing.  The  elder  sister 
23 


350  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

urged  Fanny  to  give  an  account  of  herself,  and  used  some 
very  plain  speech  of  the  admonitory  kind. 

"What  has  become  of  that  jackanapes,  Horace 
Lord  ? "  asked  Fanny,  after  a  contemptuous  remark  about 
"  sermons." 

"  I  don't  know.  The  question  is,  what's  going  to  be- 
come of  youf  " 

Whereupon  the  girl  grew  vituperative  in  two  lan- 
guages, and  made  off.  Her  relatives  saw  no  more  of  her 
for  a  long  time. 

To  Mrs.  Peachey  was  born  a  daughter.  Naturally,  the 
months  preceding  this  event  had  been,  for  her  husband,  a 
renewal  of  martyrdom  ;  his  one  supporting  solace  lay  in 
the  thought  of  the  little  lad  at  Canterbury.  All  the  old 
troubles  were  revived  ;  from  morning  till  night  the  house 
rang  with  brawls  between  mistress  and  servants  ;  in  the 
paroxysms  favoured  by  her  physicial  condition,  Ada  be- 
haved like  a  candidate  for  Bedlam,  and  more  than  once 
obliged  her  husband  to  seek  temporary  peace  in  lodgings. 
He  left  home  at  eight  o'clock  every  morning,  and  re- 
turned as  late  as  possible.  The  necessity  of  passing  long 
evenings  made  him  haunt  places  of  entertainment,  and  he 
sometimes  had  recourse  to  drink, — he  by  nature  the 
soberest  of  men, — in  fear  of  what  awaited  him  on  his 
tardy  appearance  at  Brixton.  A  month  after  Ada's  con- 
finement he  once  more  acted  a  sane  part,  and  announced 
by  letter  that  he  would  die  rather  than  continue  living 
with  his  wife.  As  it  was  fine  autumn  weather  he  went 
down  to  a  seaside  place,  where  his  Canterbury  relatives 
and  the  little  boy  joined  him  for  a  holiday  of  several 
weeks.  Again  Ada  was  to  receive  an  allowance.  She 
despatched  a  few  very  virulent  post-cards,  but  presently 
grew  quiet,  and  appeared  to  accept  the  situation. 

In  early  winter  Fanny  French  came  over  to  England. 
She  had  again  been  ill,  and  this  time  with  results  ob- 
viously graver.  Her  first  call  was  upon  Beatrice,  who 
still  occupied  the  flat  at  Brixton,  and  here  she  unbosomed 
herself  of  a  dolorous  story.  All  her  money  had  vanished ; 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  351 

stolen,  most  of  it,  Fanny  declared ;  she  was  without  re- 
sources, and,  as  any  one  could  see,  in  a  wretched  state  of 
health.  Would  Beatrice  have  compassion  on  her  ? 
Would  she  lend  her  money  till  she  was  well  enough  to 
"  look  round  ?  " 

Miss  French  at  once  took  the  girl  into  her  own  home, 
and  had  her  looked  after.  Fanny  coughed  in  an  alarm- 
ing way ;  the  doctor,  speaking  privately  with  Beatrice, 
made  an  unpleasant  report ;  was  it  possible  to  send  the 
patient  to  a  mild  climate  for  the  winter  months  ?  Yes, 
Miss  French  could  manage  that,  and  would.  A  suitable 
attendant  having  been  procured,  Fanny  was  despatched 
to  Bournemouth,  whence,  in  a  day  or  two,  she  wrote  to 
her  sister  thus : 

"  You've  been  awfully  kind  to  me,  and  I  shan't  forget 
it  when  I'm  well  again.  Feel  a  good  deal  fitter  already. 
Dullish  place  this,  but  I've  got  to  put  up  with  it.  I've 
had  a  letter  from  Ada.  If  you  see  her,  tell  her  she's  a 
beast.  She  says  it's  all  my  own  fault ;  wait  till  I'm  back 
again,  and  I'll  pay  her  a  call.  My  own  fault  indeed  !  It 
seems  to  me  I'm  very  much  to  be  pitied." 

Walking  one  day  along  the  sea-front  by  herself,  Fanny 
observed  a  young  man's  figure  a  few  paces  in  advance  of 
her,  which  seemed  to  awaken  recollections.  Presently 
the  young  man  turned  and  showed,  beyond  doubt,  the 
countenance  of  Horace  Lord.  He  met  her  eyes,  gave  a 
doubtful,  troubled  look,  and  was  going  past  when  Fanny 
accosted  him. 

"  Well,  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is — it  really  is !  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  ! 
But  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Amusing  myself — comme  vous  voyez  ;  and  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  doing  the  same." 

They  had  shaken  hands,  and  were  sauntering  on  to- 
gether. 

"  Anything  wrong  with  your  health  ?  "  Fanny  asked, 
scrutinising  the  pale  thin  face,  with  its  touch  of  warmth 
on  the  cheeks. 


352  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  Oh,  I've  had  a  bit  of  a  cold ;  nothing  to  speak  of. 
You  been  out  of  sorts  ?  " 

"  A  little  run  down.     Over-study,  they  say." 

Horace  looked  his  surprise. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  went  in  for  that  kind  of 
thing." 

"  Didn't  you  ?  I've  been  studying  abroad  for  a  long 
time.  Thinking  of  taking  a  place  as  French  teacher  in 
some  tip-top  high  school." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  Capital  idea.  Sure  I  hope 
you'll  be  successful." 

"Thanks  awf'ly.  Tell  me  something  about  yourself. 
Why,  it's  two  years  since  we  saw  each  other,  isn't  it  ? 
Are  you  married  yet  ? " 

Horace  smiled  and  coloured. 

"  No,  no — not  yet.  I'm  in  business  with  Luckworth 
Crewe, — sort  of  sleeping  partner  just  now." 

"  Are  you  really  ?    And  how's  your  sister  ? " 

The  young  man  bent  his  brows  uncomfortably. 

"  Don't  you  know  anything  about  her  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I've  heard  she's  married." 

"  Yes,  a  man  called  Tarrant.  Very  clever  fellow :  he 
writes  for  the  papers. — I  say,  Miss  French,  I  generally 
have  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit,  at  the  confectioner's, 
about  this  time.  Will  you  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
company  ? " 

"  Charmee,  Monsieur  I  I  generally  go  in  for  the  same 
kind  of  thing." 

So  they  repaired  to  the  cake-shop,  and  sat  talking  for 
half-an-hour  of  trifles  which  made  them  laugh. 

"  And  you  really  didn't  know  me  ? "  said  Fanny,  when 
her  glass  of  wine  was  finished.  "Have  I  changed  so 
much  ? " 

"  A  good  deal.    Not  for  the  worse,  oh  dear  no !  " 

The  girl  giggled. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  saying  that  you  have  changed  a 
good  deal  for  the  better." 

Horace  flushed  at  the  compliment. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  353 

"  I'm  much  older,"  he  answered  with  a  sigh,  as  though 
the  years  of  a  sexagenarian  weighed  upon  him. 

"  That's  just  what  I  like  in  you.  You're  so  much  more 
of  a  man.  Don't  be  offended." 

They  went  forth  again  into  the  sunshine.  At  the  door 
both  coughed,  and  both  pretended  that  it  wasn't  a  cough 
at  all,  but  a  voluntary  little  hem. 


II 

MRS.  DAMEREL  was  younger  than  ever.  She  had  spent 
October  abroad,  with  her  friends  Mrs.  and  Miss  Chittle, 
and  the  greater  part  of  November  at  Brighton,  with  other 
friends.  Back  in  town  she  established  herself  at  one  of 
the  various  boarding-houses  honoured  by  her  patronage, 
and  prepared  to  enjoy  the  social  life  of  winter. 

Half  a  year  ago  an  unwonted  depression  had  troubled 
her  serene  existence.  At  the  close  of  the  London  season 
she  seemed  weary  and  spiritless,  very  unlike  herself; 
having  no  invitation  for  the  next  two  months,  she  with- 
drew to  Whitsand,  and  there  spent  some  cheerless  weeks. 

Whitsand  was  the  as  yet  unfashionable  seaside  place 
which  had  attracted  the  speculative  eye  of  Luckworth 
Crewe.  For  the  past  two  years  he  had  been  trying  to 
inspire  certain  men  of  capital  with  his  own  faith  in  the 
possibilities  of  Whitsand ;  he  owned  a  share  in  the  new 
hotel  just  opened  ;  whenever  his  manifold  affairs  allowed 
him  a  day's  holiday,  he  spent  it  at  Whitsand,  pacing  the 
small  esplanade,  and  meditating  improvements.  That 
these  "  improvements "  signified  the  conversion  of  a 
pretty  little  old-world  spot  into  a  hideous  brand  new 
resort  of  noisy  hordes,  in  no  degree  troubled  Mr.  Crewe's 
conscience.  For  his  own  part,  he  could  appreciate  the 
charms  of  Whitsand  as  it  stood  ;  he  was  by  no  means  in- 
sensible to  natural  beauty  and  the  ancient  peace  which  so 
contrasted  with  his  life  of  every  day ;  but  first  and  fore- 
most in  his  mind  came  the  necessity  of  making  money ; 


354  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

and  to  fill  his  pockets  he  would  no  more  hesitate  about 
destroying  the  loveliest  spot  on  earth,  than  the  starving 
hunter  would  stay  his  hand  out  of  admiration  for  bird  or 
beast. 

It  was  with  much  delight  that  he  heard  of  Mrs. 
Damerel's  retreat  to  Whitsand.  To  the  note  in  which 
she  acquainted  him  with  her  arrival  there  he  replied  ef- 
fusively. "  The  patronage  of  a  few  really  fashionable 
people,  such  as  yourself,  would  soon  do  wonders.  We 
must  have  a  special  paragraph  in  the  local  paper,  drawing 
attention  to  your  being  there  " — and  so  on.  An  answer  by 
return  of  post  rather  disappointed  him.  On  no  account, 
wrote  Mrs.  Damerel,  must  her  name  be  specially  men- 
tioned in  the  paper.  She  had  taken  very  simple  lodgings, 
very  inexpensive,  and  wished  to  live  as  quietly  as  pos- 
sible. But,  after  seeing  the  place,  she  quite  agreed  with 
Mr.  Crewe  that  it  had  a  future,  and  if  he  could  run  down 
some  day,  whilst  she  was  here,  it  would  give  her  great 
pleasure  to  hear  his  projects  explained  on  the  spot. 

Crewe  ran  down.  In  speaking  of  Mrs.  Damerel  as  a 
u  really  fashionable  "  person,  he  used  no  insincerity ;  from 
their  first  meeting  he  had  seen  in  this  lady  his  ideal  of 
social  distinction ;  she  was,  in  fact,  the  only  woman  of 
skilfully  pretentious  demeanour  with  whom  he  had  ever 
spoken.  Her  distant  likeness  to  Nancy  Lord  interested 
and  attracted  him ;  her  suave  superiority  awed  his  con- 
scious roughness ;  she  seemed  to  him  exquisitely  gracious, 
wonderfully  sweet.  And  as,  little  by  little,  he  attained 
the  right  to  think  of  her  almost  as  a  friend,  his  humble 
admiration  became  blended  with  feelings  he  took  particu- 
lar care  not  to  betray,  lest  he  should  expose  himself  to 
ridicule.  That  her  age  exceeded  his  own  by  some  years 
he  was  of  course  aware,  but  this  fact  soon  dropped  out  of 
his  mind,  and  never  returned  to  it.  Not  only  did  he 
think  Mrs.  Damerel  a  type  of  aristocratic  beauty,  he  saw 
in  her  countenance  all  the  freshness  and  the  promise  of 
youth. 

The  slight  mystery  attaching  to  her  position  only  in- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  355 

creased  his  susceptibility  to  her  charms.  It  seemed  to  him 
very  probable  that  she  had  but  a  moderate  income ;  per- 
haps she  was  not  free  from  anxieties  on  that  score.  But 
such  a  woman  would  of  course  marry  again,  and  marry 
well.  The  thought  grew  troublesome,  and  presently  ac- 
counted for  ebullitions  of  wraith,  accompanied  by  more 
than  usually  vigorous  language,  when  business  matters 
went  wrong. 

At  Whitsand,  Mrs.  Damerel  showed  herself  more  than 
ever  sweetly  affable.  The  season,  she  said,  had  been  rather 
too  much  for  her ;  she  must  take  care  of  her  health  ;  be- 
sides—and her  smile  played  upon  Crewe's  pulses— there 
were  troubles,  cares,  of  which  she  could  not  speak  even  to 
so  valued  a  friend. 

44  I'm  afraid  you're  anxious  about  your  nephew,"  mur- 
mured the  man  of  business ;  though  at  the  same  time  he 
suspected  other  things,  for  the  lodgings  in  which  he  found 
Mrs.  Damerel  were  certainly  modest. 

41  Yes,  I  trouble  a  good  deal  about  him.  If  only  dear 
Horace  would  be  reconciled  to  me.  It  seems  such  a  long, 
long  time.  You  know  that  we  have  corresponded,  but  he 
refuses  to  see  me.  It  pains  me  deeply,  Mr.  Crewe." 

And,  after  a  silence : 

"There's  a  special  reason  why  I  wish  he  would  be 
friends  with  me, — a  reason  that  concerns  his  own  future. 
Why  should  I  not  tell  you  ?  I  am  sure  you  will  respect 
my  confidence. — He  will  very  soon  become  independent, 
and  then  I  do  so  fear  he  may  make  a  foolish  marriage. 
Yet  all  the  time  there  is  a  chance  waiting  for  him  which 
would  establish  his  fortune  and  his  happiness  for  life. 
Did  he  ever  speak  to  you  of  Miss  Chittle  ? " 

44  I  don't  remember  the  name." 

44  Such  a  dear,  sweet  girl,  and  with  really  large  means. 
He  was  introduced  to  her  during  the  happy  time  when  we 
saw  so  much  of  each  other,  and  she  at  once  became  inter- 
ested in  him.  Her  dear  mother  assured  me  of  it.  She  is  a 
very  shy,  retiring  girl,  and  has  refused  many  offers,  before 
and  since  then.  Isn't  it  a  pity  ?  But  I  am  losing  all  hope, 


356  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

and  I  so  fear  he  may  have  formed  some  other  attach- 
ment." 

Crewe  went  back  to  London  resolved  that  Horace  Lord 
should  no  longer  "  play  the  fool."  And  he  was  success- 
ful. Horace  had  all  but  lost  his  resentment  against  Mrs. 
Damerel ;  he  kept  aloof  out  of  stubborn  conceit — it  had 
not  dignity  enough  to  be  called  pride ;  the  same  feeling 
that  still  estranged  him  from  Nancy,  though  he  would 
gladly  have  welcomed  his  sister's  offer  of  affection.  Per- 
suaded, or  commanded,  by  Luckworth  Crewe,  he  took  the 
train  to  Whitsand,  and  remained  there  for  several  days. 
Mrs.  Damerel  wrote  her  friend  in  Farringdon  Street  a 
letter  of  gratitude,  which  acted  upon  him  like  champagne. 
In  a  postscript  she  said :  "  Mrs.  Chittle  and  her  daughter 
have  consented  to  come  here  for  a  week  or  two.  They 
will  take  rooms  at  the  Imperial." 

Before  the  end  of  September,  Horace  Lord  was  engaged 
to  Winifred  Chittle. 

Two  years  had  made  very  little  change  in  Miss  Chit- 
tie's  appearance.  She  was  still  colourless  and  abnormally 
shy,  still  had  the  look  of  one  who  sheds  secret  tears,  and 
her  repugnance  to  Society  had,  if  possible,  increased. 
Horace  thought  her  pretty,  was  impressed  by  her  extreme 
gentleness  and  refinement,  but  she  obtained  no  power 
over  his  emotions  such  as  that  formerly  exercised  by 
Fanny  French.  It  struck  him,  too,  as  a  very  strange 
thing,  that  a  young  lady  with  a  large  fortune  should  be 
willing  to  marry  a  man  of  his  social  insignificance.  "  My 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel,  "it  was  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight."  But  Horace,  who  had  gained  some  experience  of 
life,  could  not  believe  this.  He  wooed,  and  won ;  yet  even 
when  Winifred  accepted  him,  he  felt  that  she  did  it  under 
some  constraint.  Her  pale  face  declared  no  happiness. 

Had  she  chosen,  Mrs.  Damerel  could  have  explained 
the  mystery.  She  knew  that,  several  years  ago,  Wini- 
fred's name  had  been  blighted  by  a  scandal,  and  that  the 
girl's  shrinking  from  every  proposal  of  marriage  was  due, 
in  part  perhaps,  to  the  memory  of  love  betrayed,  in  part 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE,  357 

to  a  sense  of  honour,  and  to  the  suspicion  that  men,  know- 
ing her  disgrace,  condoned  it  for  the  sake  of  her  wealth. 
Interest  made  Mrs.  Damerel  generous  ;  she  admitted  every 
excuse  for  Winifred,  and  persuaded  herself  that  in  pro- 
curing Horace  such  a  wife  she  was  doing  him  only  a 
nominal  wrong.  The  young  people  could  live  apart  from 
that  corner  of  Society  in  which  Miss  Chittle's  name  gave 
occasion  to  smiles  or  looks  of  perfunctory  censure.  If 
Winifred,  after  marriage,  chose  to  make  confession,  why, 
that  was  her  own  affair,  and  Horace  would  be  wise  enough, 
all  advantages  considered,  to  take  the  matter  philsoph- 
ically. 

That  was  the  view  of  a  practical-minded  observer.  To 
read  Winifred  perfectly,  there  needed  a  much  more  subtle 
and  sympathetic  intelligence.  The  girl  had,  in  truth,  con- 
ceived a  liking  for  Horace  Lord,  and  it  grew  stronger 
when  she  learnt  that  neither  by  birth  nor  present  circum- 
stances did  he  belong  to  her  own  world.  To  please  her 
mother  she  was  willing  to  take  a  husband,  but  the  hus- 
band must  be  of  her  own  choice.  She  wished  to  enter 
upon  a  wholly  new  life,  remote  from  the  social  conditions 
which  of  late  years  had  crushed  her  spirit.  From  the 
men  who  had  hitherto  approached  her,  she  shrank  in 
fear.  Horace  Lord,  good-looking  and  not  uneducated,  yet 
so  far  from  formidable,  suggested  a  new  hope;  even 
though  he  might  be  actuated  by  the  ordinary  motives, 
she  discerned  in  him  a  softness,  a  pliability  of  nature, 
which  would  harmonise  with  her  own  timid  disposition. 
To  the  thought  of  deceiving  him  on  the  subject  of  her 
past,  she  was  reconciled  by  a  resolve  to  make  his  happi- 
ness the  sole  object  of  her  existence  in  the  future.  Horace 
was  amiability  itself,  and  seemed,  if  not  to  love  her  ar- 
dently (which,  perhaps,  she  did  not  even  desire),  at  least  to 
regard  her  with  an  increasing  affection. 

Nothing  was  said  about  the  condition  of  the  prospec- 
tive bridegroom's  health,  though  Horace  had  confided  to 
Mrs.  Damerel  that  he  suffered  from  a  troublesome  cough, 
accompanied  now  and  then  by  an  alarming  symptom. 


358  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

In  her  boundless  exultation  at  the  end  achieved,  Mrs. 
Damerel  made  light  of  this  complaint.  Horace  was  not 
free  to  marry  until  nearly  the  end  of  the  year ;  for,  though 
money  would  henceforth  be  no  matter  of  anxiety,  he 
might  as  well  secure  the  small  inheritance  presently  due 
to  him.  November  and  December  he  should  spend  at 
Bournemouth  under  the  best  medical  care,  and  after  that, 
if  needful,  his  wife  would  go  with  him  to  Madeira  or  some 
such  place. 

No  wonder  Mrs.  Damerel  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  great  fact  that  Horace  had  secured  a  fortune.  Her 
own  resources  were  coming  to  an  end,  and  but  for  the  cer- 
tainty that  Horace  would  not  grudge  her  an  ample  provi- 
sion, she  must  at  this  moment  have  been  racking  her 
brains  (even  as  through  the  summer)  for  help  against  the 
evil  that  drew  near.  Constitutional  lightness  of  heart 
had  enabled  her  to  enjoy  life  on  a  steadily,  and  rapidly, 
diminishing  fund.  There  had  been  hope  in  Nancy's  direc- 
tion, as  well  as  in  her  brother's;  but  the  disclosure  of 
Nancy's  marriage,  and  Horace's  persistency  in  unfriendli- 
ness, brought  Mrs.  Damerel  to  a  sense  of  peril.  One  offer 
of  marriage  she  had  received  and  declined ;  it  came  from 
a  man  of  advanced  years  and  small  property.  Another 
offer  she  might,  or  thought  she  might,  at  any  moment 
provoke ;  but  only  in  direst  extremity  could  she  think  of 
bestowing  her  hand  upon  Luckworth  Crewe.  Crewe  was 
in  love  with  her,  an  amusing  fact  in  itself,  and  especially 
so  in  regard  to  his  former  relations  with  Nancy  Lord.  He 
might  become  a  wealthy  man ;  on  the  other  hand,  he 
might  not ;  and  in  any  case  he  was  a  plebeian. 

All  such  miseries  were  now  dismissed  from  her  mind. 
She  went  abroad  with  the  Chittles,  enjoyed  herself  at 
Brighton,  and  came  home  to  prepare  for  Horace's  wed- 
ding, Horace  himself  being  at  Bournemouth.  After  her 
letter  of  gratitude  to  Crewe  she  had  ceased  to  correspond 
with  him ;  she  did  not  trouble  to  acquaint  him  with  Hor- 
ace's engagement;  and  when  Crewe,  having  heard  the 
news  from  his  partner,  ventured  to  send  her  a  letter  of 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  359 

congratulation,  Mrs.  Damerel  replied  in  two  or  three  very 
civil  but  cold  sentences.  Back  in  London,  she  did  not 
invite  the  man  of  projects  to  call  upon  her.  The  status 
she  had  lost  when  fears  beset  her  must  now  be  recovered. 
Let  Crewe  cherish  a  passion  for  her  if  he  liked,  but  let 
him  understand  that  social  reasons  made  it  laughably 
hopeless. 

Horace  was  to  come  up  to  London  in  the  third  week 
of  December,  and  to  be  married  on  New  Year's  Day ;  the 
honeymoon  would  be  spent  at  Ventnor,  or  somewhere 
thereabout.  Afraid  to  lose  sight  of  her  relative  for  more 
than  a  week  or  two,  Mrs.  Damerel  had  already  been  twice 
to  Bournemouth,  and  now  she  decided  to  go  for  a  third 
time,  just  to  talk  quietly  over  the  forthcoming  event,  and, 
whether  Horace  broached  the  subject  or  not,  to  apprise 
him  of  the  straits  into  which  she  was  drifting.  Unan- 
nounced by  letter,  she  reached  Bournemouth  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  went  straight  to  Horace's  lodgings.  The 
young  man  had  just  finished  luncheon,  and,  all  things 
considered,  including  the  fact  that  it  was  a  remarkably 
bright  and  warm  day  for  the  time  of  year,  he  might  have 
been  expected  to  welcome  Mrs.  Damerel  cheerfully.  Yet 
on  seeing  her  his  countenance  fell ;  he  betrayed  an  em- 
barrassment which  the  lady  noted  with  anxious  suspicion. 

"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me,  dear  boy  ? "  she  began, 
with  a  kiss  upon  his  cheek. 

"  Yes — oh  yes.  I  never  dreamt  of  your  appearing  just 
now,  that  was  all." 

"  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation.  Such  a  morning  in 
London  !  Almost  as  fine  as  it  is  here.  And  how  is  your 
cough  ? " 

Even  as  she  made  the  inquiry,  he  answered  it  by  cough- 
ing very  badly. 

"  I  don't  think  this  place  suits  you,  Horace,"  said  Mrs. 
Damerel  gravely.  "  You're  not  imprudent,  I  hope  ?  Don't 
go  out  after  dark  ? " 

Oh,  it  was  nothing,  Horace  maintained ;  for  several 
days  he  had  hardly  coughed  at  all.  But  with  every  word 


360  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

he  uttered,  Mrs.  Damerel  became  more  convinced  of  some- 
thing unusual  in  his  state  of  mind;  he  could  not  keep 
still,  and,  in  trying  to  put  himself  at  ease,  assumed  strange 
postures. 

"  When  did  you  hear  from  Winifred  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yesterday — no,  the  day  before." 

He  shrank  from  her  scrutiny,  and  an  expression  of  an- 
noyance began  to  disturb  his  features.  Mrs.  Damerel 
knew  well  enough  the  significance  of  that  particular  look ; 
it  meant  the  irritation  of  his  self-will,  the  summoning  of 
forces  to  resist  something  he  disliked. 

"  There  has  been  no  difference  between  you,  I  hope  ? " 

"  No — oh  no,"  Horace  replied,  wriggling  under  her 
look. 

At  that  moment  a  servant  opened  the  door. 

"  Two  ladies  have  called  in  a  carriage,  sir,  and  would 
like  to  see  you." 

"  I'll  go  down.     Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  aunt." 

"Who  are  they,  Horace  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Damerel,  rising 
with  an  ill-concealed  look  of  dismay. 

"Some  friends  I  have  made  here.  I'll  just  go  and 
speak  to  them." 

He  hurried  away.  No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  Mrs. 
Damerel  sprang  to  the  window,  where  she  could  look 
down  upon  the  carriage  standing  before  the  house  ;  it  was 
open,  and  in  it  sat  two  ladies,  one  middle-aged,  the  other 
much  younger.  To  her  vexation  she  could  not,  from  this 
distance,  clearly  discern  their  faces ;  but  on  glancing 
rapidly  round  the  room,  she  saw  Horace's  little  binocular. 
An  instant  brought  it  into  focus  upon  the  carriage,  and 
what  she  then  saw  gave  Mrs.  Damerel  such  a  shock,  that 
an  exclamation  escaped  her.  Still  she  gazed  through  the 
glasses,  and  only  turned  away  when  the  vehicle  drove  on. 

Horace  came  up  flushed  and  panting. 

"  It's  all  right.  They  wanted  me  to  go  for  a  drive,  but 
I  explained " 

He  saw  the  binocular  in  Mrs.  Damerel's  hand,  and  at 
the  same  moment  read  detection  on  her  countenance. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  361 

She  gazed  at  him ;  he  answered  the  look  with  lowering 
challenge. 

"  Horace,  that  was  Fanny  French." 

"  So  it  was,  aunt." 

"  What  is  going  on  between'  you  ? " 

The  young  man  took  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
and  swung  his  leg.  He  looked  sullenly  obstinate. 

"  We  met  by  accident — here — the  other  day." 

"  How  can  I  believe  that,  Horace  ? "  said  Mrs.  Damerel, 
in  a  voice  of  soft  reproach.  And  she  drew  near  to  him. 
"  Be  truthful  with  me,  dear.  Do  tell  me  the  truth  ! — Is  she 
anything  to  you  ? " 

"  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  aunt.  She  came  here,  as  I 
have  done,  for  her  health.  I  haven't  seen  her  for  two 
years." 

"  And  you  don't  wish  to  renew  acquaintance  with  her, 
— I'm  sure  you  don't." 

He  looked  away,  and  said  nothing. 

"  My  dear,  do  you  know  her  character  ?  " 

"  What  about  her  ? " 

The  tone  was  startling,  but  Mrs.  Darnerel  kept  firm, 
though  agitated. 

u  She  has  led  the  most  disgraceful  life.  I  heard  about 
her  half  a  year  after  she  ran  away,  but  of  course  I  wouldn't 
tell  you  such  painful  things." 

Horace  reddened  with  anger. 

"And  who  is  to  blame  for  it  ?"  he  cried  passionately. 
"  Who  drove  her  to  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't  come  back  to  that  again,  Horace ! " 
pleaded  the  other.  "  How  can  any  one  drive  a  girl  into  a 
life  of  scandalous  immorality  ?  It  was  in  herself,  dear. 
She  took  to  it  naturally,  as  so  many  women  do.  Remem- 
ber that  letter  she  wrote  from  Brussels,  which  I  sent  you 
a  copy  of r 

"  It  was  a  forgery ! "  thundered  Horace.  "  I  have  asked 
her.  She  says  she  never  wrote  any  such  letter." 

"  Then  she  lies,  as  such  creatures  always  do." 

Bitterness  of  apprehension  overcame  Mrs.  Damerel's 


362  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

prudence.  With  flashing  eyes,  she  faced  the  young  man 
and  dared  his  wrath.  As  they  stood  thus,  the  two  were 
astonishingly  like  each  other,  from  forehead  to  chin. 

"  It's  no  use,  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you,  aunt. 
Think  what  you  like  of  Miss  French,  J  know  the  truth 
about  her." 

He  slipped  from  the  table,  and  moved  away. 

"  I  will  say  no  more,  Horace.  You  are  independent, 
and  must  have  your  own  acquaintances.  But  after  you 
are  married " 

The  other  voice  interrupted. 

"  I  had  better  tell  you  at  once.  I  shall  not  marry  Miss 
Chittle.  I  am  going  to  write  this  afternoon  to  break 
it  off." 

Mrs.  Damerel  went  pale,  and  stood  motionless. 

"  Horace,  you  can't  be  so  wicked  as  that ! " 

"It's  better,"  he  pursued  recklessly,  "to  break  it  off 
now,  than  to  marry  her  and  make  her  miserable.  I  don't 
love  her,  and  I  have  never  really  thought  I  did.  I  was 
going  to  marry  her  only  for  her  money.  Why  she  wants 
to  marry  me,  I  don't  know.  There's  something  wrong ; 
she  doesn't  really  care  for  me." 

"  She  does !    I  assure  you  she  does  !  " 

"Then  I  can't  help  it." 

Mrs.  Damerel  went  close  to  him,  and  touched  his  arm. 

"  My  dear," — her  voice  was  so  low  that  it  seemed  terror- 
stricken, — "  you  don't  mean  to  marry — any  one  else  ? " 

He  drew  apart,  she  followed  him. 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  terrible  !  What  can  I  say  to  open 
your  eyes  and  show  you  what  you  are  doing  ?  Horace, 
have  you  no  sense  of  honour  ?  Can  you  find  it  in  your 
heart  to  cast  off  a  girl  who  loves  you,  and  thinks  that  in 
so  short  a  time  she  will  be  your  wife  ? " 

"  This  again  is  your  fault,"  he  replied,  with  a  violence 
which  proved  the  conflict  of  emotions  in  him.  "  But  for 
you,  I  should  never  have  proposed  to  Winifred — never 
dreamt  of  such  a  thing.  What  do  I  want  with  her  money  ? 
I  have  enough  ©f  my  own,  and  I  shall  make  more  in  busi- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  363 

ness.  Why  have  you  driven  me  into  this  ?  Did  you  ex- 
pect to  get  some  profit  out  of  it  ? " 

The  blow  struck  home,  and  Mrs.  Damerel  flinched. 

"  I  had  your  happiness  in  view,  my  dear." 

"  My  happiness  !  that's  your  view  of  things ;  that's  why 
I  couldn't  really  like  you,  from  the  first.  You  think  of 
nothing  but  money.  Why  you  objected  to  Fanny  French 
at  first  was  because  you  wished  me  to  marry  some  one 
richer.  I  don't  thank  you  for  that  kind  of  happiness ;  I 
had  rather  marry  a  woman  I  can  love." 

"  And  you  can  love  such  a  creature  as  that  ? " 

Again  she  lost  her  self-command  ;  the  mere  thought  of 
Fanny's  possible  triumph  exasperated  her. 

"  I  won't  hear  her  abused,"  cried  Horace,  with  answer- 
ing passion.  "  You  are  the  last  person  who  ought  to  do  it. 
Comparing  her  and  you,  I  can't  help  saying — 

An  exclamation  of  pain  checked  his  random  words; 
he  looked  at  Mrs.  Damerel,  and  saw  her  features  wrung 
with  anguish. 

"  You  mustn't  speak  to  me  like  that ! "  Once  more  she 
approached  him.  "If  you  only  knew — I  can't  bear  it — 
I've  always  been  a  worldly  woman,  but  you  are  breaking 
my  heart,  Horace  !  My  dear,  my  dear,  if  only  out  of  pity 
for  me— 

"  Why  should  I  pity  you  ? "  he  cried  impatiently. 

"Because — Horace— give  me  your  hand,  dear;  let  me 
tell  you  something. — I  am  your  mother." 

She  sobbed  and  choked,  clinging  to  his  arm,  resting 
her  forehead  against  it.  The  young  man,  stricken  with 
amazement,  stared  at  her,  speechless. 

"  I  am  your  own  mother,  dear,"  she  went  on,  in  a  quiv- 
ering voice.  "Your  mother  and  Nancy's.  And  neither 
of  you  can  love  me." 

"  How  can  that  be  ? "  Horace  asked,  with  genuine  per- 
plexity. "How  could  you  have  married  some  one 
else?" 

She  passed  an  arm  about  his  neck,  and  hid  her  face 
against  him. 


364  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  left  your  father— and  he  made  me  free  to  marry 
again." 

"  You  were  divorced  ? " 

Horace  did  not  mean  to  speak  brutally ;  in  his  wonder- 
ment he  merely  pressed  for  a  complete  explanation.  The 
answer  was  a  sob,  and  for  some  moments  neither  of  them 
spoke.  Then  the  mother,  her  face  still  hidden,  went  on  in 
a  thick  voice : 

"  I  married  because  I  was  poor — for  no  other  reason — 
and  then  came  the  temptation.  I  behaved  wickedly,  I  de- 
serted my  little  children.  Don't  revenge  yourself  upon 
me  now,  darling!  If  only  I  could  have  told  you  this 
before — I  did  so  want  to,  but  I  was  afraid.  I  had  to  con- 
ceal half  my  love  for  you.  You  can't  imagine  how  I 
have  suffered  from  your  anger,  and  from  Nancy's  cold- 
ness. You  don't  know  me ;  I  have  never  been  able  to  let 
you  see  what  I  really  think  and  feel.  I  am  worldly;  I 
can't  live  without  luxuries  and  society  and  amusements ; 
but  I  love  you,  my  dear  son,  and  it  will  break  my  heart 
if  you  ruin  yourself.  It's  true  I  thought  of  Winifred's 
money,  but  she  is  very  fond  of  you,  Horace ;  her  mother 
has  told  me  she  is.  And  it  was  because  of  my  own  posi- 
tion. I  have  spent  nearly  all  my  husband  left  me;  it 
wasn't  enough  to  supply  me  with  an  income;  I  could 
only  hope  that  something — that  you,  dear,  would  forgive 
your  poor  mother,  and  help  her.  If  you  cast  me  off,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  the  young  man  spoke 
gravely : 

"  You  are  welcome,  mother,  to  half  my  income.  But 
you  must  leave  me  free  to  marry  as  I  like." 

"  Then  I  can't  take  a  penny  from  you,"  she  answered, 
weeping.  "  If  you  ruin  yourself,  you  ruin  me  as  well." 

"  The  ruin  would  come  if  I  married  Winifred.  I  love 
Fanny ;  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  have 
never  ceased  to  love  her.  Tell  me  what  you  like  about 
her,  it  will  make  no  difference." 

A  fit  of  violent  coughing  stopped  his  speech ;  he  turned 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  335 

away,  and  stood  by  the  window,  holding  his  handkerchief 
to  his  mouth. 

Mrs.  Damerel  sank  upon  a  chair  in  mute  misery. 


Ill 

BELOW  the  hill  at  Harrow,  in  a  byway  which  has  no 
charm  but  that  of  quietness,  stands  a  row  of  small  plain 
houses,  built  not  long-  ago,  yet  at  a  time  when  small 
houses  were  constructed  with  some  regard  for  soundness 
and  durability.  Each  contains  six  rooms,  has  a  little  strip 
of  garden  in  the  rear,  and  is,  or  was  in  1889,  let  at  a  rent 
of  six-and-twenty  pounds.  The  house  at  the  far  end  of 
the  row  (as  the  inhabitants  described  it)  was  then  ten- 
anted by  Mary  Woodruff,  and  with  her,  as  a  lodger,  lived 
Mrs.  Tarrant. 

As  a  lodger,  seeing  that  she  paid  a  specified  weekly 
sum  for  her  shelter  and  maintenance  ;  in  no  other  respect 
could  the  wretched  title  apply  to  her.  To  occupy  fur- 
nished lodgings,  is  to  live  in  a  house  owned  and  ruled  by 
servants ;  the  least  tolerable  status  known  to  civilisation. 
From  her  long  experience  at  Falmouth,  Nancy  knew 
enough  of  the  petty  miseries  attendant  upon  that  condi- 
tion to  think  of  it  with  dread  when  the  stress  of  heroic 
crisis  compelled  her  speedy  departure  from  the  old  home. 
It  is  seldom  that  heroic  crisis  bears  the  precise  conse- 
quence presumed  by  the  actors  in  it;  supreme  moments 
are  wont  to  result  in  some  form  of  compromise.  So 
Nancy,  prepared  to  go  forth  into  the  wilderness  of  land- 
ladies, babe  in  arm,  found  that  so  dreary  a  self-sacrifice 
neither  was  exacted  of  her,  nor  would  indeed  be  per- 
mitted ;  she  had  to  reckon  with  Mary  Woodruff.  Mary, 
thanks  to  her  old  master,  enjoyed  an  income  more  than 
sufficient  to  her  needs :  if  Nancy  must  needs  go  into  lodg- 
ings,— inevitable,  perhaps,  as  matters  stood, — her  friend 
was  ready  with  kind  and  practical  suggestion ;  to  wit, 
that  she  should  take  and  furnish  a  house  for  herself,  and 
24 


366  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE, 

place  a  portion  of  it  at  Mrs.  Tarrant's  disposal.  To  this 
even  Tarrant  could  offer  no  objection  ;  he  stipulated  only 
that  his  wife  should  find  a  temporary  refuge  from  the 
home  she  had  occupied  on  false  pretences  until  Mary  had 
her  new  house  in  readiness.  This  was  managed  without 
difficulty.  Nancy  went  to  Dulwich,  and  for  several  weeks 
dwelt  with  the  honest  woman  who  took  care  of  her  child. 

Of  the  dealings  between  Nancy  and  her  legal  guar- 
dians Tarrant  learned  nothing,  save  the  bare  fact  that  her 
marriage  was  avowed,  and  all  benefit  under  her  father's 
will  renounced.  He  did  not  visit  the  house  at  Dulwich, 
and  only  saw  his  child  after  the  removal  to  Harrow.  On 
this  occasion  he  asked  Nancy  what  arrangements  had 
been  made  concerning  the  money  that  must  be  reim- 
bursed to  the  Messrs.  Barmby ;  she  replied  that  justice 
would  be  done,  but  the  affair  was  hers  alone,  and  to  her 
must  be  left. 

Tarrant  himself  suggested  the  neighbourhood  of  Har- 
row for  Nancy's  abode.  It  united  the  conditions  of  being 
remote  from  Camberwell,  of  lying  beyond  the  great 
smoke-area,  and  of  permitting  him,  poor  as  he  was,  to 
visit  his  wife  whenever  he  thought  fit. 

In  December,  Nancy  had  lived  thus  for  all  but  a 
twelvemonth,  seeing  the  while  none  of  her  old  acquaint- 
ances, and  with  very  little  news  from  her  old  world. 
What  she  heard  came  through  Horace,  who,  after  learn- 
ing with  astonishment  the  secret  in  his  sister's  life,  came 
by  degrees  to  something  like  the  old  terms  of  affection 
with  her,  and  went  over  to  Harrow  pretty  frequently.  Of 
his  engagement  to  Winifred  Chittle  he  at  once  informed 
Nancy,  who  tried  to  be  glad  of  it,  but  could  have  little 
faith  in  anything  traceable  to  the  influence  of  Mrs. 
Damerel.  With  that  lady  the  Harrow  household  had  no 
direct  communication  ;  Tarrant  had  written  to  her  on  the 
night  of  crisis,  civilly  requesting  her  to  keep  aloof,  as  her 
advice  and  assistance  were  in  nowise  needed.  She  an- 
swered him  with  good  temper,  and  wrote  kindly  to 
Nancy ;  after  that,  silence  on  both  sides. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  367 

It  wanted  a  few  days  to  Christmas ;  with  nightfall  had 
come  a  roaring  wind  and  sleety  rain ;  the  house-door  was 
locked ;  within,  lamps  and  fires  burned  cheerily.  At 
half -past  six,  Nancy — she  occupied  the  two  front  rooms 
— sat  in  her  parlour,  resting  after  the  exertion  of  putting 
her  son  to  bed.  To  judge  from  her  countenance,  she 
was  well  and  happy.  The  furniture  about  her  aimed 
at  nothing  but  homely  comfort ;  the  pictures  and  books, 
being  beyond  dispute  her  own,  had  come  from  Grove 
Lane. 

Save  when  Tarrant  was  here,  Nancy  and  Mary  of  course 
lived  like  friends  who  share  a  house,  eating  together  and 
generally  sitting  together.  During  an  hour  or  two  each 
day  the  younger  woman  desired  solitude,  for  a  reason  un- 
derstood by  her  companion,  who  then  looked  after  the 
baby.  This  present  evening  Nancy  had  proposed  to  spend 
alone ;  but,  after  sitting  idly  for  a  few  minutes,  she  opened 
the  door  and  called  Mary — just  then  occupied  in  teaching 
a  young  servant  how  to  iron. 

"  I  shall  not  write,  after  all,"  she  said,  when  her  friend 
came.  *'  I'm  too  tired.  Bring  your  sewing,  or  your  book, 
here." 

Mary  was  never  talkative ;  Nancy  kept  a  longer  silence 
than  usual. 

"  How,"  she  exclaimed  at  length,  "  do  poor  women  with 
a  lot  of  children  manage  ?  It  really  is  a  mystery  to  me. 
Here  am  I  with  one  baby,  and  with  the  constant  help  of 
two  people ;  yet  he  tires  me  out.  Not  a  troublesome  baby, 
either ;  healthy  and  good-tempered.  Yet  the  thought  and 
anxiety  and  downright  hard  labour  for  a  good  twelve 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four !  I  feel  that  a  second  child 
would  be  too  much  for  me." 

She  laughed,  but  looked  seriously  for  the  reply. 

"Poor  mothers,"  said  Mary,  "can't  give  the  same  care 
to  their  children  that  you  give  to  baby.  The  little  ones 
grow  up,  or  they  don't  grow  up. — that's  what  it  comes 
to." 

"  Yes ;  that  is  to  say,  only  the  fit  survive.    A  very  good 


368  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

thing — when  other  people's  children  are  in  question.  But 
I  should  kill  myself  in  taking  care  of  them,  if  I  had  a  large 
family." 

"  I  have  known  mothers  who  did,"  Mary  remarked. 

"  It  comes  to  this.  Nature  doesn't  intend  a  married 
woman  to  be  anything  but  a  married  woman.  In  the  natu- 
ral state  of  things,  she  must  either  be  the  slave  of  husband 
and  children,  or  defy  her  duty.  She  can  have  no  time  to 
herself,  no  thoughts  for  herself.  It's  a  hard  saying,  but 
who  can  doubt  that  it  is  Nature's  law  ?  I  should  like  to 
revolt  against  it,  yet  I  feel  revolt  to  be  silly.  One  might 
as  well  revolt  against  being  born  a  woman  instead  of  a 
man." 

Mary  reflected,  but  held  her  peace. 

"Then  comes  in  money,"  pursued  Nancy,  "and  that 
alters  the  state  of  the  case  at  once.  The  wife  with  money 
says  to  people  :  Come  here,  and  be  my  slaves.  Toil  for  me, 
whilst  I  am  enjoying  myself  in  ways  that  Dame  Nature 
wouldn't  allow.  I  want  to  read,  to  play  music,  to  see  my 
friends,  to  see  the  world.  Unless  you  will  slave  for  me,  I 
can't  budge  from  nursery  and  kitchen. — Isn't  it  a  queer 
thing  ? " 

The  less  sophisticated  woman  had  a  difficulty  in  catch- 
ing Nancy's  point  of  view.  She  began  to  argue  that  do- 
mestic service  was  no  slavery. 

"  But  it  comes  to  that,"  Nancy  insisted.  "  And  what  I 
mean  is,  that  the  thought  has  made  me  far  more  contented 
than  I  was  at  first.  After  all,  one  can  put  up  with  a  great 
deal,  if  you  feel  you're  obeying  a  law  of  Nature.  Now,  I 
have  brains,  and  I  should  like  to  use  them ;  but  Nature 
says  that's  not  so  important  as  bringing  up  the  little  child 
to  whom  I  have  given  life.  One  thought  that  troubles  me 
is,  that  every  generation  of  women  is  sacrificed  to  the 
generation  that  follows ;  and  of  course  that's  why  women 
are  so  inferior  to  men.  But  then  again,  Nature  says 
that  women  are  born  only  to  be  sacrificed.  I  always 
come  round  to  that.  I  don't  like  it,  but  I  am  bound  to  be- 
lieve it." 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  369 

"  Children  grow  up,"  said  Mary,  "  and  then  mothers  are 
free." 

"  Free  to  do  what  ?  To  think  of  what  they  might  have 
done  in  the  best  years  of  their  life." 

It  was  not  said  discontentedly ;  Nancy's  mood  seemed 
to  be  singularly  calm  and  philosophical.  She  propped  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  and  gazed  at  the  fire. 

"Well,"  remarked  Mary,  with  a  smile,  "you,  at  all 
events,  are  not  one  of  the  poorest  women.  All  seems  to 
be  going  well,  and  you  will  be  able,  I  am  sure,  to  get  all 
the  help  you  need." 

"Perhaps.  But  I  shall  never  feel  quiet  in  my  con- 
science. I  shall  feel  as  if  I  had  defeated  Nature  by  a 
trick,  and  fear  that  she'll  somehow  be  revenged  on 
me." 

This  was  quite  beyond  Mary's  scope  of  thought,  and  she 
frankly  said  so. 

"  One  thing  I'm  quite  sure  of,  Nancy,"  she  added,  "  and 
that  is,  that  education  makes  life  very  much  harder  to  live. 
That's  why  I  don't  hold  with  educating  the  poor — not  be- 
yoiid  reading  and  writing.  Without  education,  life  is  very 
plain,  though  it  may  be  a  struggle.  But  from  what  I  have 
seen  of  highly-taught  people,  I'm  very  sure  they  suffer 
worse  in  their  minds  than  the  poor  ever  do  in  their  bodies." 

Nancy  interrupted  her. 

"Hush!    Was  that  baby?" 

"  Only  the  wind,  I  think." 

Not  content,  Nancy  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
Whilst  she  stood  there  listening,  Mary  came  out,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice : 

"  There's  a  tap  at  the  window." 

"  No ! — You  must  have  been  mistaken." 

"  I'm  sure  it  was  a  tap  on  the  glass." 

She  withdrew  to  the  back  sitting-room,  and  Nancy, 
with  quick  step,  went  to  open  the  house-door.  A  great 
gust  of  wind  forced  it  against  her  as  soon  as  she  turned  the 
handle ;  standing  firm,  she  peeped  into  darkness. 

"  Any  one  there  ? " 


370  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  No  enemy  but  winter  and  rough  weather,"  chanted  a 
familiar  voice. 

"  Why,  what  brings  you  here,  frightening  lone  women 
at  this  time  of  night  ?  Shut  and  lock  the  door  for  me. 
The  house  will  be  blown  out  of  the  windows." 

Nancy  retreated  to  her  parlour,  and  stood  there  in  an 
attitude  of  joyous  expectation.  Without  hurry  Tarrant 
hung  up  his  coat  and  hat  in  the  passage,  then  came  for- 
ward, wiping  rain  from  his  moustache.  Their  eyes  met  in 
a  smile,  frank  and  confident. 

"  Why  have  you  come,  Lionel  ? " 

"  No  reason  in  particular.  The  fancy  took  me.  Am  I 
unwelcome  ? " 

For  answer,  his  wife's  arms  were  thrown  about  him. 
A  lovers'  meeting,  with  more  of  tenderness,  and  scarcely 
less  of  warmth,  than  when  Nancy  knocked  at  the  door  in 
Staple  Inn. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ? " 

"  Only  for  what  you  have  given  me." 

"  Some  tea,  then,  after  that  wretched  journey." 

"  No.     How's  the  boy  ? " 

He  drew  her  upon  his  knee,  and  listened  laughingly 
whilst  the  newest  marvels  of  babyhood  were  laughingly 
related. 

"  Anything  from  Horace  ? " 

"Not  a  word.  He  must  be  in  London  now;  I  shall 
write  to-morrow." 

Tarrant  nodded  carelessly.  He  had  the  smallest  inter- 
est in  his  wife's  brother,  but  could  not  help  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  that  Horace  was  to  be  reputably,  and  even 
brilliantly,  married.  From  all  he  knew  of  Horace,  the 
probability  had  seemed  that  his  marriage  would  be  some 
culmination  of  folly. 

"  I  think  you  have  something  to  tell  me,"  Nancy  said 
presently,  when  her  hand  had  been  fondled  for  a  minute 
or  two. 

"  Nothing  much,  but  good  as  far  as  it  goes.  Bunbury 
has  asked  me  to  write  him  an  article  every  week  for  the 


IN  THE   YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  371 

first  six  months  of  '90.  Column  and  a  half,  at  two  guineas 
a  column." 

u  Three  guineas  a  week." 

"  O  rare  head  !  " 

"  So  there's  110  anxiety  for  the  first  half  of  next  year,  at 
all  events,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  think  I  can  count  on  a  margin  of  fifty  pounds  or  so 
by  midsummer — towards  the  debt,  of  course." 

Nancy  bit  her  lip  in  vexation,  but  neither  made  nor 
wished  to  make  any  protest.  Only  a  week  or  two  ago, 
since  entering  upon  his  patrimony,  Horace  Lord  had  ad- 
vanced the  sum  necessary  to  repay  what  Nancy  owed  to 
the  Barmbys.  However  rich  Horace  was  going  to  be,  this 
debt  to  him  must  be  cancelled.  On  that,  as  on  most  other 
points,  Tarrant  and  his  wife  held  a  firm  agreement  of  opin- 
ion. Yet  they  wanted  money ;  the  past  year  had  been  a 
time  of  struggle  to  make  ends  meet.  Neither  was  natu- 
rally disposed  to  asceticism,  and  if  they  did  not  grumble  it 
was  only  because  grumbling  would  have  been  undignified. 

"Did  you  dine  with  the  great  people  on  Thursday  ? " 
Nancy  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  rather  enjoyed  it.  There  were  one  or  two 
clever  women." 

"  Been  anywhere  else  ?  " 

"An  hour  at  a  smoking-concert  the  other  evening. 
Pippit,  the  actor,  was  there,  and  recited  a  piece  much 
better  than  I  ever  heard  him  speak  anything  on  the  stage. 
They  told  me  he  was  drunk ;  very  possibly  that  accounted 
for  it." 

To  a  number  of  such  details  Nancy  listened  quietly, 
with  bent  head.  She  had  learned  to  put  absolute  faith  in 
all  that  Tarrant  told  her  of  his  quasi-bachelor  life ;  she 
suspected  no  concealment ;  but  the  monotony  of  her  own 
days  lay  heavy  upon  her  whilst  he  talked. 

"  Won't  you  smoke  ? "  she  asked,  rising  from  his  knee 
to  fetch  the  pipe  and  tobacco- jar  kept  for  him  upon  a  shelf. 
Slippers  also  she  brought  him,  and  would  have  unlaced 
his  muddy  boots  had  Tarrant  permitted  it.  When  he  pre- 


372  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

sented  a  picture  of  masculine  comfort,  Nancy,  sitting  op- 
posite, cautiously  approached  a  subject  of  which  as  yet 
there  had  been  no  word  between  them. 

"  Oughtn't  you  to  get  more  comfortable  lodgings  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  do  very  well.  I'm  accustomed  to  the  place,  and 
I  like  the  situation." 

He  had  kept  his  room  in  Great  College  Street,  though 
often  obliged  to  scant  his  meals  as  the  weekly  rent-day 
approached. 

*'  Don't  you  think  we  might  make  some  better — some 
more  economical  arrangement  ? " 

"How?" 

Nancy  took  courage,  and  spoke  her  thoughts. 

"  It's  more  expensive  to  live  separately  than  if  we  were 
together." 

Tarrant  seemed  to  give  the  point  his  impartial  con- 
sideration. 

"  H'm — no,  I  think  not.  Certainly  not,  with  our  pres- 
ent arrangements.  And  even  if  it  were,  we  pay  for  your 
comfort,  and  my  liberty." 

"  Couldn't  you  have  as  much  liberty  if  we  were  living 
under  the  same  roof  ?  Of  course  I  know  that  you  couldn't 
live  out  here  ;  it  would  put  a  stop  to  your  work  at  once. 
But  suppose  we  moved.  Mary  might  take  a  rather  larger 
house — it  needn't  be  much  larger — in  a  part  convenient 
for  you.  We  should  be  able  to  pay  her  enough  to  set  off 
against  her  increased  expenses." 

Smoking  calmly,  Tarrant  shook  his  head. 

"  Impracticable.  Do  you  mean  that  this  place  is  too 
dull  for  you  ? " 

"  It  isn't  lively,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of  the  place.  If 
you  lived  here,  it  would  be  all  I  should  wish." 

"  That  sounds  so  prettily  from  your  lips,  Nancy,  that 
I'm  half  ashamed  to  contradict  it.  But  the  truth  is  that 
you  can  only  say  such  things  because  we  live  apart. 
Don't  deceive  yourself.  With  a  little  more  money,  this 
life  of  ours  would  be  as  nearly  perfect  as  married  life 
ever  can  be." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  373 

Nancy  remembered  a  previous  occasion  when  he  spoke 
to  the  same  purpose.  But  it  was  in  the  time  she  did  not 
like  to  think  of,  and  in  spite  of  herself  the  recollection 
troubled  her. 

"  You  must  have  more  variety,"  he  added.  "  Next  year 
you  shall  come  into  town  much  oftener — 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  that.  I  always  like  going  any- 
where with  you ;  but  I  have  plenty  of  occupations  and 
pleasures  at  home. — I  think  we  ought  to  be  under  the 
same  roof." 

"  Ought  ?  Because  Mrs.  Tomkins  would  cry  haro  I  if 
her  husband  the  greengrocer  wasn't  at  her  elbow  day  and 
night  ? " 

"  Have  more  patience  with  me.  I  didn't  mean  ought 
in  the  vulgar  sense — I  have  as  little  respect  for  Mrs.  Tom- 
kins  as  you  have.  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your 
liberty  for  a  moment ;  indeed  it  would  be  very  foolish,  for 
I  know  that  it  would  make  you  detest  me.  But  I  so  often 
want  to  speak  to  you — and — and  then,  I  can't  quite  feel 
that  you  acknowledge  me  as  your  wife  so  long  as  I  am 
away." 

Tan-ant  nodded. 

"I  quite  understand.  The  social  difficulty.  Well, 
there's  no  doubt  it  is  a  difficulty ;  I  feel  it  on  your  account. 
I  wish  it  were  possible  for  you  to  be  invited  wherever  I 
am.  Some  day  it  will  be,  if  I  don't  get  run  over  in  the 
Strand ;  but— 

"  I  should  like  the  invitations,"  Nancy  broke  in,  "  but 
you  still  don't  understand  me." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  You  are  a  woman,  and  it's  quite 
impossible  for  a  woman  to  see  this  matter  as  a  man  does. 
Nancy,  there  is  not  one  wife  in  fifty  thousand  who  retains 
her  husband's  love  after  the  first  year  of  marriage.  Put 
aside  the  fools  and  the  worthless ;  think  only  of  women 
with  whom  you  might  be  compared — brave,  sensible, 
pure-hearted ;  they  can  win  love,  but  don't  know  how  to 
keep  it." 

"  Why  not  put  it  the  other  way  about,  and  say  that 


374:  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

men  can  love  to  begin  with,   but   so  soon  grow  care- 


"Because  I  am  myself  an  instance  to  the  contrary." 

Nancy  smiled,  but  was  not  satisfied. 

"The  only  married  people,"  Tarrant  pursued,  "who 
can  live  together  with  impunity,  are  those  who  are  rich 
enough,  and  sensible  enough,  to  have  two  distinct  estab- 
lishments under  the  same  roof.  The  ordinary  eight  or  ten- 
roomed  house,  inhabited  by  decent  middle-class  folk,  is  a 
gruesome  sight.  What  a  huddlement  of  male  and  female  ! 
If  our  income  never  rises  above  that,  we  shall  live  to  the 
end  of  our  days  as  we  do  now." 

Nancy  looked  appalled. 

"  But  how  can  you  hope  to  make  thousands  a  year  ? '' 

"  I  have  no  such  hope ;  hundreds  would  be  sufficient. 
I  don't  aim  at  a  house  in  London ;  everything  there  is 
intolerable,  except  the  fine  old  houses  which  have  a  his- 
tory, and  which  I  could  never  afford.  For  my  home,  I 
want  to  find  some  rambling  old  place  among  hills  and 
woods, — some  house  where  generations  have  lived  and 
died, — where  my  boy,  as  he  grows  up,  may  learn  to  love 
the  old  and  beautiful  things  about  him.  I  myself  never 
had  a  home  ;  most  London  children  don't  know  what  is 
meant  by  home ;  their  houses  are  only  more  or  less  com- 
fortable lodgings,  perpetual  change  within  and  without." 

"  Your  thoughts  are  wonderfully  like  my  father's, 
sometimes,"  said  Nancy. 

"From  what  you  have  told  me  of  him,  I  think  we 
should  have  agreed  in  a  good  many  things." 

"  And  how  unfortunate  we  were  !  If  he  had  recovered 
from  that  illness, — if  he  had  lived  only  a  few  months — 
everything  would  have  been  made  easy." 

"  For  me  altogether  too  easy,"  Tarrant  observed. 

"  It  has  been  a  good  thing  for  you  to  have  to  work," 
Nancy  assented.  "  I  understand  the  change  for  the  better 
in  you.  "  But " — she  smiled — "  you  have  more  self-will 
than  you  used  to  have." 

"  That's  just  where  I  have  gained. — But  don't  think 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  375 

that  I  find  it  easy  or  pleasant  to  resist  your  wish.  I 
couldn't  do  it  if  I  were  not  so  sure  that  I  am  acting  for  your 
advantage  as  well  as  my  own.  A  man  who  finds  himself 
married  to  a  fool,  is  a  fool  himself  if  he  doesn't  take  his 
own  course  regardless  of  his  wife.  But  I  am  in  a  very 
different  position  ;  I  love  you  more  and  more,  Nancy,  be- 
cause I  am  learning  more  and  more  to  respect  you;  I 
think  of  your  happiness  most  assuredly  as  much  as  I  think 
of  my  own.  But  even  if  my  own  good  weighed  as  noth- 
ing against  yours,  I  should  be  wise  to  resist  you  just  as  I 
do  now.  No  need  to  test  the  thing  once  more,  to  our  own 
disaster." 

"  What  I  think  is,  that,  though  you  pay  me  compli- 
ments, you  really  have  a  very  poor  opinion  of  me.  You 
think  I  should  burden  and  worry  you  in  endless  silly  ways. 
I  am  not  such  a  simpleton.  In  however  small  a  house, 
there  could  be  your  rooms  and  mine.  Do  you  suppose 
I  should  interfere  with  your  freedom  in  coming  and 
going  ? " 

"  Whether  you  meant  to  or  not,  you  would — so  long  as 
we  are  struggling  with  poverty.  However  self-willed  I 
am,  I  am  not  selfish ;  and  to  see  you  living  a  monotonous, 
imprisoned  life  would  be  a  serious  hindrance  to  me  in 
my  own  living  and  working.  Of  course  the  fact  is  so  at 
present,  and  I  often  enough  think  in  a  troubled  way 
about  you  ;  but  you  are  out  of  my  sight,  and  that  enables 
me  to  keep  you  out  of  mind.  If  I  am  away  from  home 
till  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  there  is  no  lonely  wife 
fretting  and  wondering  about  me.  For  work  such  as 
mine,  I  must  live  as  though  I  were  not  married  at  all." 

"  But  suppose  we  got  out  of  our  poverty,"  urged  Nancy, 
"  you  would  be  living  the  same  life,  I  suppose ;  and  how 
would  it  be  any  better  for  you  or  me  that  we  had  a  large 
house  instead  of  a  small  one  ? " 

"  Your  position  will  be  totally  changed.  When  money 
comes,  friends  come.  You  are  not  hiding  away  from  So- 
ciety because  you  are  unfit  for  it,  only  because  you  can't 
live  as  your  social  equals  do.  When  you  have  friends  of 


376  IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

your  own,  social  engagements,  interests  on  every  hand,  I 
shall  be  able  to  go  my  own  way  without  a  pang  of  con- 
science. When  we  come  together,  it  will  be  to  talk  of 
your  affairs  as  well  as  of  mine.  Living  as  you  do  now, 
you  have  nothing  on  earth  but  the  baby  to  think  about — a 
miserable  state  of  things  for  a  woman  with  a  mind.  I 
know  it  is  miserable,  and  I'm  struggling  tooth  and  nail  to 
help  you  out  of  it." 

Nancy  sighed. 

u  Then  there  are  years  of  it  still  before  me." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  Some  years,  no  doubt,  before  we 
shall  have  a  home ;  but  not  before  I  can  bring  you  in  con- 
tact with  the  kind  of  people  you  ought  to  know.  You 
shall  have  a  decent  house — socially  possible — somewhere 
out  west ;  and  I,  of  course,  shall  still  go  on  in  lodgings." 

He  waited  for  Nancy's  reply,  but  she  kept  silence. 

"  You  are  still  dissatisfied  ? " 

She  looked  up,  and  commanded  her  features  to  the  ex- 
pression which  makes  whatever  woman  lovely — that  of 
rational  acquiescence.  On  the  faces  of  most  women  such 
look  is  never  seen. 

"  No,  I  am  content.  You  are  working  hard,  and  I 
won't  make  it  harder  for  you." 

"  Speak  always  like  that ! "  Tarrant's  face  was  radiant. 
"  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  binds  man  to  woman,  body 
and  soul.  With  the  memory  of  that  look  and  speech, 
would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  slight  you  in  my  life  apart  ? 
It  makes  you  my  friend  ;  and  the  word  friend  is  better  to 
my  ear  than  wife.  A  man's  wife  is  more  often  than  not 
his  enemy.  Harvey  Munden  was  telling  me  of  a  poor 
devil  of  an  author  who  daren't  be  out  after  ten  at  night 
because  of  the  fool-fury  waiting  for  him  at  home." 

Nancy  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  she  can't  trust  him." 

"  And  suppose  she  can't  ?  What  is  the  value  of  nomi- 
nal fidelity,  secured  by  mutual  degradation  such  as  that  ? 
A  rational  woman  would  infinitely  rather  have  a  husband 
who  was  often  unfaithful  to  her  than  keep  him  faithful 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  377 

by  such  means.  Husband  and  wife  should  interfere  with 
each  other  not  a  jot  more  than  two  friends  of  the  same  sex 
living-  together.  If  a  man,  under  such  circumstances, 
worried  his  friend's  life  out  by  petty  prying-,  he  would  get 
his  head  punched.  A  wife  has  no  more  justification  in 
worrying  her  husband  with  jealousies." 

"  How  if  it  were  the  wife  that  excited  suspicion  ? "  asked 
Nancy. 

"  Infidelity  in  a  woman  is  much  worse  than  in  a  man. 
If  a  man  really  suspects  his  wife,  he  must  leave  her,  that's 
all ;  then  let  her  justify  herself  if  she  can." 

Nancy  cared  little  to  discuss  this  point.  In  argument 
with  any  one  else,  she  would  doubtless  have  maintained 
the  equality  of  man  and  woman  before  the  moral  law ; 
but  that  would  only  have  been  in  order  to  prove  herself 
modern-spirited.  Tarrant's  dictum  did  not  revolt  her. 

"  Friends  are  equals,"  she  said,  after  a  little  thought. 
"  But  you  don't  think  me  your  equal,  and  you  won't  be 
satisfied  with  me  unless  I  follow  your  guidance." 

Tarrant  laughed  kindly. 

"  True,  I  am  your  superior  in  force  of  mind  and  force 
of  body.  Don't  you  like  to  hear  that  ?  Doesn't  it  do  you 
good — when  you  think  of  the  maudlin  humbug  generally 
talked  by  men  to  women  ?  We  can't  afford  to  disguise 
that  truth.  All  the  same,  we  are  friends,  because  each  has 
the  other's  interest  at  heart,  and  each  would  be  ashamed 
to  doubt  the  other's  loyalty." 

The  latter  part  of  the  evening  they  spent  with  Mary,  in 
whom  Tarrant  always  found  something  new  to  admire. 
He  regarded  her  as  the  most  wonderful  phenomenon  in 
nature— an  uneducated  woman  who  was  neither  vulgar 
nor  foolish. 

Baby  slept  in  a  cot  beside  Nancy's  bed.  For  fear  of 
waking  him,  the  wedded  lovers  entered  their  room  very 
softly,  with  a  shaded  candle.  Tarrant  looked  at  the  curly 
little  head,  the  little  clenched  hand,  and  gave  a  silent 
laugh  of  pleasure. 

On  the  breakfast-table  next  morning  lay  a  letter  from 


378  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Horace.  As  soon  as  she  had  opened  it,  Nancy  uttered  ari 
exclamation  which  prepared  her  companion  for  ill 
news. 

"Just  what  I  expected — though  I  tried  not  to  think 
so.  4 1  write  a  line  only  to  tell  you  that  my  marriage  is 
broken  off.  You  will  know  the  explanation  before  long. 
Don't  trouble  yourself  about  it.  I  should  never  have  been 
happy  with  Winifred,  nor  she  with  me.  We  may  not  see 
each  other  for  some  time,  but  I  will  write  again  soon.' 
He  doesn't  say  whether  he  or  she  broke  it  off.  I  hope  it 
was  Winifred." 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Tarrant,  "  from  the  tone  of  that 
letter." 

"I'm  afraid  not,  too.  It  means  something  wretched. 
He  writes  from  his  London  lodgings.  Lionel,  let  me  go 
back  with  you,  and  see  him." 

"  By  all  means." 

Her  gravest  fear  Nancy  would  not  communicate.  And 
it  hit  the  truth. 


IV 

THEY  parted  at  Baker  Street,  Tarrant  for  his  lodgings 
and  the  work  that  awaited  him  there,  Nancy  to  go  west- 
ward by  another  train. 

When  she  reached  the  house  from  which  her  brother 
had  dated  his  letter,  it  was  half-past  ten.  At  the  door 
stood  a  cab,  and  a  servant  was  helping  the  driver  to  hoist 
a  big  trunk  on  to  the  top. 

"  Is  Mr.  Lord  still  here  ? "  Nancy  asked  of  the  girl. 

"  He's  just  this  minute  a-goin',  miss.  This  is  his  lug- 
gage." 

She  sent  her  name,  and  was  quickly  led  up  to  the  first 
floor.  There  stood  Horace  ready  for  departure. 

"  Why  have  you  come  ? "  he  asked,  with  annoyance. 

"  What  else  could  I  do  on  hearing  such  news  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  should  write  again,  and  I  said  plainly 
that  it  was  better  we  shouldn't  see  each  other  for  some 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  379 

time. — Why  will  people  pester  me  out  of  my  life  ? — I'm. 
not  a  child  to  be  hunted  like  this ! " 

On  the  instant,  he  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  excitement 
which  alarmed  his  sister.  There  were  drops  of  sweat  on 
his  forehead,  and  tears  in  his  eyes  ;  the  blood  had  rushed 
to  his  cheeks,  and  he  trembled  violently. 

"  I  am  so  troubled  about  you,"  said  Nancy,  with  anx- 
ious tenderness.  "  I  have  been  looking  forward  with  such 
hope  to  your  marriage, — and  now — 

"  I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  it  just  now.  It  was 
all  Mrs.  Damerel's  doing ;  the  engagement,  I  mean.  It's 
a  good  thing  I  drew  back  in  time. — But  I  have  a  train  to 
catch  ;  I  really  mustn't  stay  talking." 

"  Are  you  going  far,  Horace  ? " 

"  To  Bournemouth  again, — for  the  present.  I've  given 
up  these  rooms,  and  I'm  taking  all  my  things  away.  In  a 
month  or  two  I  may  go  abroad  ;  but  I'll  let  you  know." 

Already  he  was  out  of  the  room  ;  his  sister  had  no 
choice  but  to  follow  him  downstairs.  He  looked  so  ill, 
and  behaved  with  such  lack  of  self-restraint,  that  Nancy 
kept  her  eyes  upon  him  in  an  awe-stricken  gaze,  as  though 
watching  some  one  on  the  headlong  way  to  destruction. 
Pouring  rain  obliged  her  to  put  up  her  umbrella  as  she 
stepped  down  on  to  the  pavement.  Horace,  having 
shouted  a  direction  to  the  driver,  entered  the  cab. 

"  You  haven't  even  shaken  hands  with  me,  Horace," 
Nancy  exclaimed,  standing  at  the  window. 

"  Good-bye,  dear ;  good-bye !  You  shouldn't  have 
come  in  weather  such  as  this.  Get  home  as  fast  as  you 
can.  Good-bye  !  Tell  the  fellow  to  drive  sharp." 

And  the  cab  clattered  away,  sending  spurts  of  mud  on 
to  Nancy's  waterproof. 

She  walked  on  for  a  few  paces  without  reflection,  until 
the  vehicle  disappeared  round  a  corner.  Coming  to  her- 
self, she  made  for  the  railway  again,  which  was  at  only  a 
few  minutes'  distance,  and  there  she  sat  down  by  the  fire 
in  the  waiting-room.  Her  health  for  the  last  year  had 
been  sound  as  in  the  days  of  girlhood ;  it  was  rarely 


380  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

that  she  caught  cold,  and  weather  would  have  been  in- 
different to  her  but  for  the  discomfort  which  hindered  her 
free  movement. 

Vexed  at  so  futile  a  journey,  she  resolved  not  to  return 
home  without  making  another  effort  to  learn  something 
about  Horace.  The  only  person  to  whom  she  could  apply 
was  the  one  who  would  certainly  be  possessed  of  informa- 
tion,— Mrs.  Damerel.  At  the  time  of  Horace's  engage- 
ment, Nancy  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Damerel,  and  replied 
to  the  letter ;  she  remembered  her  aunt's  address,  and  as 
the  distance  was  not  great,  the  temptation  to  go  there  now 
proved  irresistible.  Her  husband  would  dislike  to  hear  of 
such  a  step,  but  he  had  never  forbidden  communication 
with  Mrs.  Damerel. 

By  help  of  train  and  omnibus  she  reached  her  new 
destination  in  half-an-hour,  and  felt  a  relief  on  learning 
that  Mrs.  Damerel  was  at  home.  But  it  surprised  her  to 
be  conducted  into  a  room  where  lamps  were  burning,  and 
blinds  drawn  close  ;  she  passed  suddenly  from  cheerless 
day  to  cosy  evening.  Mrs.  Damerel,  negligently  attired, 
received  her  with  a  show  of  warm  welcome,  but  appeared 
nervous  and  out  of  spirits. 

"  I  am  not  very  well,"  she  admitted,  "  and  that's  why  I 
have  shut  out  the  dreadful  weather.  Isn't  it  the  most 
sensible  way  of  getting  through  the  worst  of  a  London 
winter  ?  To  pretend  that  there  is  daylight  is  quite 
ridiculous,  so  one  may  as  well  have  the  comforts  of 
night." 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  about  Horace,"  said  Nancy,  at 
once.  In  any  case,  she  would  have  felt  embarrassment, 
and  it  was  increased  by  the  look  with  which  Mrs.  Damerel 
kept  regarding  her, — a  look  of  confusion,  of  shrinking,  of 
intense  and  painful  scrutiny. 

"  You  know  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning,  to  say  that  his 
marriage  was  broken  off — nothing  else.  So  I  came  over 
from  Harrow  to  see  him.  But  he  had  hardly  a  minute 
to  speak  to  me.  He  was  just  starting  for  Bournemouth." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  381 

"  And  what  did  lie  tell  you  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Damerel, 
who  remained  standing-, — or  rather  had  risen,  after  a  pre- 
tence of  seating  herself. 

"  Nothing  at  all.  He  was  very  strange  in  his  manner. 
He  said  he  would  write." 

"  You  know  that  he  is  seriously  ill  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  must  be." 

"  He  has  grown  much  worse  during  the  last  fortnight. 
Don't  you  suspect  any  reason  for  his  throwing  off  poor 
Winifred  ? " 

"  I  wondered  whether  he  had  met  that  girl  again.  But 
it  seemed  very  unlikely." 

"  He  has.  She  was  at  Bournemouth  for  her  health. 
She,  too,  is  ill ;  consumptive,  like  poor  Horace,— of  course 
a  result  of  the  life  she  has  been  leading.  And  he  is  going 
to  marry  her." 

Nancy's  heart  sank.  She  could  say  nothing.  She  re- 
membered Horace's  face,  and  saw  in  him  the  victim  of 
ruthless  destiny. 

"  I  have  done  my  utmost.     He  didn't  speak  of  me  ? " 

"  Only  to  say  that  his  engagement  with  Winifred  was 
brought  about  by  you." 

"  And  wasn't  I  justified  ?  If  the  poor  boy  must  die,  he 
would  at  least  have  died  with  friends  about  him,  and  in 
peace.  I  always  feared  just  what  has  happened.  It's 
only  a  few  months  ago  that  he  forgave  me  for  being, 
as  he  thought,  the  cause  of  that  girl's  ruin ;  and  since  then 
I  have  hardly  dared  to  lose  sight  of  him.  I  went  down  to 
Bournemouth  unexpectedly,  and  was  with  him  when  that 
creature  came  to  the  door  in  a  carriage.  You  haven't  seen 
her.  She  looks  what  she  is,  the  vilest  of  the  vile.  As  if 
any  one  can  be  held  responsible  for  that !  She  was  born 
to  be  what  she  is.  And  if  I  had  the  power,  I  would  crush 
out  her  hateful  life  to  save  poor  Horace  ! " 

Nancy,  though  at  one  with  the  speaker  in  her  hatred 
of  Fanny  French,  found  it  as  difficult  as  ever  to  feel  sym- 
pathetically towards.  Mrs.  Damerel.  She  could  not  credit 
this  worldly  woman  with  genuine  affection  for  Horace ; 
25 


382  IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

the  vehemence  of  her  speech  surprised  and  troubled  her, 
she  knew  not  how. 

"  He  said  nothing  more  about  me  ?  "  added  Mrs.  Dam- 
erel,  after  a  silence. 

"Nothing  at  all." 

It  seemed  to  Nancy  that  she  heard  a  sigh  of  relief. 
The  other's  face  was  turned  away.  Then  Mrs.  Damerel 
took  a  seat  by  the  fire. 

"They  will  be  married  to-morrow,  I  dare  say,  at 
Bournemouth — no  use  trying  to  prevent  it.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  will  believe  me,  but  it  is  a  blow  that  will 
darken  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Her  voice  sounded  slightly  hoarse,  and  she  lay  back  in 
the  chair,  with  drooping  head. 

"You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with,"  said 
Nancy,  yielding  to  a  vague  and  troublous  pity.  "And 
you  have  done  as  much  as  any  one  could  on  his  behalf." 

"  I  shall  never  see  him  again — that's  the  hardest 
thought.  She  will  poison  him  against  me.  He  told  me  I 
had  lied  to  him  about  a  letter  that  girl  wrote  from  Brussels ; 
she  has  made  him  think  her  a  spotless  innocent,  and  he 
hates  me  for  the  truth  I  told  about  her." 

"  However  short  his  life,"  said  Nancy,  "  he  is  only  too 
likely  to  find  out  what  she  really  is." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  She  knows  he  is  doomed,  and 
it's  her  interest  to  play  a  part.  He  will  die  thinking  the 
worst  of  me. — Nancy,  if  he  writes  to  you,  and  says  any- 
thing against  me,  you  will  remember  what  it  means  ? " 

"My  opinion  of  people  is  not  affected  by  hearsay," 
Nancy  replied. 

It  was  a  remark  of  dubious  significance,  and  Mrs. 
Damerel's  averted  eyes  seemed  to  show  that  she  derived 
little  satisfaction  from  it.  As  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
Nancy  rose. 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  get  rid  of  your  cold." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  haven't  asked  how  the  little 
boy  is.  Well,  I  hope  ? " 

"  Very  well,  I  am  glad  to  say." 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  383 

"  And  your  husband — he  is  prospering  ? " 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  he  is  prospering ;  it  seems  to 
mean  so  much ;  but  I  think  he  is  doing  good  work,  and 
we  are  satisfied  with  the  results." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  an  admirable  wife." 

Nancy  coloured ;  for  the  first  time,  a  remark  of  Mrs. 
Damerel's  had  given  her  pleasure.  She  moved  forward 
with  hand  offered  for  leave-taking.  They  had  never 
kissed  each  other,  but,  as  if  overcoming  diffidence,  Mrs. 
Damerel  advanced  her  lips ;  then,  as  suddenly,  she  drew 
back. 

"  I  had  forgotten.     I  may  give  you  my  sore  throat." 

Nancy  kissed  her  cheek. 

That  night  Mrs.  Damerel  was  feverish,  and  the  next 
day  she  kept  her  bed.  The  servant  who  waited  upon  her 
had  to  endure  a  good  many  sharp  reproofs ;  trouble  did 
not  sweeten  this  lady's  temper,  yet  she  never  lost  sight  of 
self-respect,  and  even  proved  herself  capable  of  acknowl- 
edging that  she  was  in  the  wrong.  Mrs.  Damerel  possessed 
the  elements  of  civilisation. 

This  illness  tried  her  patience  in  no  slight  degree. 
Something  she  had  wished  to  do,  something  of  high  mo- 
ment, was  vexatiously  postponed.  A  whole  week  went 
by  before  she  could  safely  leave  the  house,  and  even  then 
her  mirror  counselled  a  new  delay.  But  on  the  third  day 
of  the  new  year  she  made  a  careful  toilette,  and  sent  for  a 
cab, — the  brougham  she  had  been  wont  to  hire  being  now 
beyond  her  means. 

She  drove  to  Farringdon  Street,  and  climbed  to  the 
office  of  Mr.  Luckworth  Crewe.  Her  knowledge  of 
Crewe's  habits  enabled  her  to  choose  the  fitting  hour  for 
this  call ;  he  had  lunched,  and  was  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  How  delightful  to  see  you  here ! "  he  exclaimed. 
kk  But  why  did  you  trouble  to  come  ?  If  you  had  written, 
or  telegraphed,  I  would  have  saved  you  the  journey.  I 
haven't  even  a  chair  that's  fit  for  you  to  sit  down  on." 

"  What  nonsense  1  It's  a  most  comfortable  little  room. 
Haven't  you  improved  it  since  I  called  ? " 


384:  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  shall  have  to  look  out  for  a  bigger  place.  .I'm  out- 
growing this." 

"  Are  you  really  ?  That's  excellent  news.  Ah,  but 
what  sad  things  have  been  happening ! " 

"It's  a  bad  business,"  Ore  we  answered,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  heard  from  you  about  it." 

The  reason  of  his  silence  she  perfectly  understood. 
Since  Horace's  engagement,  there  had  been  a  marked 
change  in  her  demeanour  towards  the  man  of  business ; 
she  had  answered  his  one  or  two  letters  with  such  cold 
formality,  and,  on  the  one  occasion  of  his  venturing  to 
call,  had  received  him  with  so  marked  a  reserve,  that 
Crewe,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  "  got  his  back  up." 
His  ideas  of  chivalrous  devotion  were  anything  but  com- 
plex; he  could  not  bend  before  a  divinity  who  snubbed 
him ;  if  the  once  gracious  lady  chose  to  avert  her  coun- 
tenance, he  would  let  her  know  that  it  didn't  matter  much 
to  him  after  all.  Moreover,  Mrs.  Damerel's  behaviour  was 
too  suggestive ;  he  could  hardly  be  wrong  in  explaining  it 
by  the  fact  that  her  nephew,  about  to  be  enriched  by  mar- 
riage, might  henceforth  be  depended  upon  for  all  the 
assistance  she  needed.  This,  in  the  Americanism  which 
came  naturally  to  Crewe's  lips,  was  "  playing  it  rather  low 
down,"  and  he  resented  it. 

The  sudden  ruin  of  Horace  Lord's  prospects  (he  had 
learnt  the  course  of  events  from  Horace  himself)  amused 
and  gratified  him.  How  would  the  high  and  mighty  Mrs. 
Damerel  relish  this  catastrophe  ?  Would  she  have  the 
"•  cheek  "  to  return  to  her  old  graciousriess  ?  If  so,  he  had 
the  game  in  his  hands  ;  she  should  see  that  he  was  not  to 
be  made  a  fool  of  a  second  time. 

Yet  the  mere  announcement  of  her  name  sufficed 
to  shatter  his  resolve.  Her  smile,  her  soft  accents, 
her  polished  manners,  laid  the  old  spell  upon  him.  He 
sought  to  excuse  himself  for  having  forsaken  her  in  her 
trial. 

"  It  really  floored  me.     I  didn't  know  what  to  say  or 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  385 

do.  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  I  was  meddling  with 
what  didn't  concern  me." 

"  Oh,  how  could  I  have  thought  that  ?  It  has  made 
me  ill ;  I  have  suffered  more  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"You  don't  look  quite  the  thing,"  said  Crewe,  search- 
ing her  face. 

"  Have  you  heard  all  ? " 

"  I  think  so.  He  is  married,  and  that's  the  end  of  it,  I 
suppose." 

Mrs.  Damerel  winced  at  this  blunt  announcement. 

"  When  was  it  ? "  she  asked,  in  an  undertone.  "  I  only 
knew  he  had  made  up  his  mind." 

Crewe  mentioned  the  date  ;  the  day  after  Nancy's  call 
upon  her. 

"  And  are  they  at  Bournemouth  ? " 

"  Yes.     Will  be  for  a  month  or  so,  he  says." 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  of  it.  As  you  say,  that's  the  end. 
Nothing  worse  could  have  happened.  Has  he  been  speak- 
ing of  me  again  like  he  used  to  ? " 

u  I  haven't  heard  him  mention  your  name." 

She  heaved  a  sigh,  and  began  to  look  round  the  office. 

"  Let  us  try  to  forget,  and  talk  of  pleasanter  things.  It 
seems  such  a  long  time  since  you  told  me  anything  about 
your  business.  You  remember  how  we  used  to  gossip.  I 
suppose  I  have  been  so  absorbed  in  that  poor  boy's  affairs ; 
it  made  me  selfish — I  was  so  overjoyed,  I  really  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  And  now —  !  But  I  must  and  will 
drive  it  out  of  my  mind.  I  have  been  moping  at  home, 
day  after  day,  in  wretched  solitude.  I  wanted  to  write  to 
you,  but  I  hadn't  the  heart — scarcely  the  strength.  I  kept 
hoping  you  might  call — if  only  to  ask  how  I  was.  Of 
course  everything  had  to  be  explained  to  inquisitive  people 
— how  I  hate  them  all !  It's  the  nature  of  the  world  to 
mock  at  misfortunes  such  as  this.  It  would  really  have 
done  me  good  to  speak  for  a  few  minutes  with  such  a 
friend  as  you — a  real  friend.  I  am  going  to  live  a  quiet, 
retired  life.  I  am  sick  of  the  world,  its  falsity,  and  its 
malice,  and  its  bitter,  bitter  disappointments." 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Crewe's  native  wit  and  rich  store  of  experience  availed 
him  nothing  when  Mrs.  Damerel  discoursed  thus.  The 
silvery  accents  nattered  his  ear,  and  crept  into  the  soft 
places  of  his  nature.  He  felt  as  when  a  clever  actress  in  a 
pathetic  part  wrought  upon  him  in  the  after-dinner  mood. 

"  You  must  bear  up  against  it,  Mrs.  Damerel.  And  I 
don't  think  a  retired  life  would  suit  you  at  all.  You  are 
made  for  Society." 

"  Don't  seek  for  compliments.  I  am  speaking  quite 
sincerely.  Ah,  those  were  happy  days  that  I  spent  at 
Whitsand !  Tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing.  Is  there 
any  hope  of  the  pier  yet  ? " 

"  Why,  it's  as  good  as  built !  "  cried  the  other.  "  Didn't 
you  see  the  advertisements,  when  we  floated  the  company 
a  month  ago  ?  I  suppose  you  don't  read  that  kind  of 
thing.  We  shall  begin  at  the  works  in  early  spring. — 
Look  here ! " 

He  unrolled  a  large  design,  a  coloured  picture  of  Whit- 
sand  pier  as  it  already  existed  in  his  imagination.  Not 
content  with  having  the  mere  structure  exhibited,  Crewe 
had  persuaded  the  draughtsman  to  add  embellishments  of 
a  kind  which,  in  days  to  come,  would  be  his  own  peculiar 
care  ;  from  end  to  end,  the  pier  glowed  with  the  placards 
of  advertisers.  Below,  on  the  sands,  appeared  bathing- 
machines,  and  these  also  were  covered  with  manifold 
advertisements.  Nay,  the  very  pleasure-boats  on  the 
sunny  waves  declared  the  glory  of  somebody's  soap,  of 
somebody's  purgatives. 

"  I'll  make  that  place  one  of  the  biggest  advertising 
stations  in  England — see  if  I  don't !  You  remember  the 
caves  ?  I'm  going  to  have  them  lighted  with  electricity, 
and  painted  all  round  with  advertisements  of  the  most 
artistic  kind." 

"  What  a  brilliant  idea ! " 

u  There's  something  else  you  might  like  to  hear  of.  It 
struck  me  I  would  write  a  Guide  to  Advertising,  and  here 
it  is."  He  handed  a  copy  of  the  book.  "  It  advertises  me, 
and  brings  a  little  grist  to  the  mill  on  its  own  account. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  337 

Three  weeks  since  I  got  it  out,  and  we've  sold  three  thou- 
sand of  it.  Costs  nothing  to  print;  the  advertisements 
more  than  pay  for  that.  Price,  one  shilling." 

"  But  how  you  do  work,  Mr.  Crewe  !  It's  marvellous. 
And  yet  you  look  so  well, — you  have  really  a  seaside 
colour ! " 

"  I  never  ailed  much  since  I  can  remember.  The  harder 
I  work,  the  better  I  feel." 

"  I,  too,  have  always  been  rather  proud  of  my  constitu- 
tion." Her  eyes  dropped.  "  But  then  I  have  led  a  life  of 
idleness.  Couldn't  you  make  me  useful  in  some  way  ?  Set 
me  to  work !  I  am  convinced  I  should  be  so  much  hap- 
pier. Let  me  help  you,  Mr.  Crewe.  I  write  a  pretty  fair 
hand,  don't  I  ? " 

Crewe  smiled  at  her,  made  a  sound  as  if  clearing  his 
throat,  grasped  his  knee,  and  was  on  the  very  point  of 
momentous  utterance,  when  the  door  opened.  Turning 
his  head  impatiently,  he  saw,  not  the  clerk  whose  duty  it 
was  to  announce  people,  but  a  lady,  much  younger  than 
Mrs.  Damerel,  and  more  fashionably  dressed,  who  for  some 
reason  had  preferred  to  announce  herself. 

"  Why  do  you  come  in  like  that  ?  "  Crewe  demanded, 
staring  at  her.  "  I'm  engaged." 

"  Are  you  indeed  ? " 

"  You  ought  to  send  in  your  name." 

"  They  said  you  had  a  lady  here,  so  I  told  them  another 
would  make  no  difference. — How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Damerel  ? 
It's  so  long  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

Beatrice  French  stepped  forward,  smiling  ominously, 
and  eyeing  first  Crewe  then  his  companion  with  curiosity 
of  the  frankest  impertinence.  Mrs.  Damerel  stood  up. 

"  We  will  speak  of  our  business  at  another  time,  Mr. 
Crewe." 

Crewe,  red  with  anger,  turned  upon  Beatrice. 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  engaged — 

"  To  Mrs.  Damerel  ?  "  asked  the  intruder  airily. 

"  You  might  suppose," — he  addressed  the  elder  lady,— 
"  that  this  woman  has  some  sort  of  hold  upon  me " 


388  IN   THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Damerel,  ufor  your 
own  sake." 

"Nothing-  of  the  kind.  She  has  pestered  me  a  good 
deal,  and  it  began  in  this  way." 

Beatrice  gave  him  so  fierce  a  look,  that  his  tongue 
faltered. 

"  Before  you  tell  that  little  story,"  she  interposed,  "you 
had  better  know  what  I've  come  about.  It's  a  queer  thing 
that  Mrs.  Damerel  should  he  here;  happens  more  con- 
veniently than  things  generally  do.  I  had  something  to 
tell  you  about  her.  You  may  know  it,  but  most  likely 
you  don't. — You  remember,"  she  faced  the  other  listener, 
"  when  I  came  to  see  you  a  long  time  ago,  I  said  it  might 
be  worth  while  to  find  out  who  you  really  were.  I  haven't 
given  much  thought  to  you  since  then,  but  I've  got  hold 
of  what  I  wanted,  as  I  knew  I  should." 

Crewe  did  not  disguise  his  eagerness  to  hear  the  rest. 
Mrs.  Damerel  stood  like  a  statue  of  British  respectability, 
deaf  and  blind  to  everything  that  conflicts  with  good- 
breeding;  stony-faced,  she  had  set  her  lips  in  the  smile 
appropriate  to  one  who  is  braving  torture. 

"  Do  you  know  who  she  is — or  not  ? "  Beatrice  asked 
of  Crewe. 

He  shuffled,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Fanny  has  just  told  me  in  a  letter ;  she  got  it  from 
her  husband.  Our  friend  here  is  the  mother  of  Horace 
Lord  and  of  Nancy.  She  ran  away  from  her  first  husband, 
and  was  divorced.  Whether  she  really  married  after- 
wards, I  don't  quite  know ;  most  likely  not.  At  all  events, 
she  has  run  through  her  money,  and  wants  her  son  to  set 
her  up  again." 

For  a  few  seconds  Mrs.  Damerel  bore  the  astonished 
gaze  of  her  admirer,  then,  her  expression  scarcely 
changing,  she  walked  steadily  to  the  door  and  vanished. 
The  silence  was  prolonged  till  broken  by  Beatrice's 
laugh. 

"  Has  she  been  bamboozling  you,  old  man  ?  I  didn't 
know  what  was  going  on.  You  had  bad  luck  with  the 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  389 

daughter ;  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  mother  would  suit  you 
better,  all  said  and  done." 

Crewe  seated  himself  and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in 
a  phrase  of  pure  soliloquy  :  u  Well,  I'm  damned  ! " 

"  I  cut  in  just  at  the  right  time,  did  I  ? — No  malice. 
I've  had  my  hit  back  at  her,  and  that's  enough." 

As  the  man  of  business  remained  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts,  Beatrice  took  a  chair.  Presently  he  looked  up 
at  her,  and  said  savagely  : 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  want  ? " 

"Nothing." 

"  Then  take  it  and  go." 

But  Beatrice  smiled,  and  kept  her  seat. 


NANCY  stood  before  her  husband  with  a  substantial 
packet  in  brown  paper.  It  was  after  breakfast,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  their  parting. 

"  Here  is  something  I  want  you  to  take,  and  look  at, 
and  speak  about  the  next  time  you  come." 

"Ho,  ho!  I  don't  like  the  look  of  it."  He  felt  the 
packet.  "  Several  quires  of  paper  here." 

"  Be  off,  or  you'll  miss  the  train." 

"Poor  little  girl!    Ettu!" 

He  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  went  his  way.  In 
the  ordinary  course  of  things  Nancy  would  not  have  seen 
him  again  for  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  She  expected  a 
letter  very  soon,  but  on  the  fourth  evening  Tarrant's 
fingers  tapped  at  the  window-pane.  In  his  hand  was  the 
brown  paper  parcel,  done  up  as  when  he  received  it. 

Nancy  searched  his  face,  her  own  perturbed  and  pallid. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  working  at  this  ? " 

"  Nearly  a  year.  But  not  every  day,  of  course.  Some- 
times for  a  week  or  more  I  could  get  no  time.  You  think 
it  bad  ? " 

"  No," — puff — "  not  in  any  sense  " — puff — "  bad.    In  one 


390  IN  THE  YEAR   OF  JUBILEE. 

sense,  it's  good.  But "— puff— u  that's  a  private  sense ;  a 
domestic  sense. ' 

"  The  question  is,  dear,  can  it  be  sold  to  a  publisher." 

"The  question  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  mustn't 
even  try  to  sell  it  to  a  publisher." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  mean  you  would  be  ashamed  if  it 
came  out.  But  I  shouldn't  put  my  own  name  to  it.  I 
have  written  it  only  in  the  hope  of  making  money,  and  so 
helping  you.  I'll  put  any  name  to  it  you  like." 

Tarrant  smoked  for  a  minute  or  two,  until  his  compan- 
ion gave  a  sign  of  impatience.  He  wore  a  very  good- 
humoured  look. 

"It's  more  than  likely  you  might  get  the  thing  ac- 
cepted— 

"  Oh,  then  why  not  ? "  she  interrupted  eagerly,  with 
bright  eyes. 

"  Because  it  isn't  literature,  but  a  little  bit  of  Nancy's 
mind  and  heart,  not  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  handling. 
To  sell  it  for  hard  cash  would  be  horrible.  Leave  that  to 
the  poor  creatures  who  have  no  choice.  You  are  not 
obliged  to  go  into  the  market." 

"  But,  Lionel,  if  it  is  a  bit  of  my  mind  and  heart,  it 
must  be  a  good  book.  You  have  often  praised  books  to 
me  just  on  that  account — because  they  were  genuine." 

"  The  books  I  praised  were  literature.  Their  authors 
came  into  the  world  to  write.  It  isn't  enough  to  be  genu- 
ine; there  must  be  workmanship.  Here  and  there  you 
have  a  page  of  very  decent  English,  and  you  are  nowhere 
on  the  level  of  the  ordinary  female  novelist.  Indeed — don't 
take  it  ill — I  was  surprised  at  what  you  had  turned  out. 
But- 

He  finished  the  sentence  in  smoke  wreaths. 

"  Then  I'll  try  again.     I'll  do  better." 

"  Never  much  better.   It  will  never  be  literature." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  I  never  thought  myself  a 
Charlotte  Bronte  or  a  George  Eliot.  But  so  many  women 
make  money  out  of  novels,  and  as  I  had  spare  time  I 
didn't  see  why  I  shouldn't  use  it  profitably.  We  want 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  391 

money,  and  if  it  isn't  actually  disgraceful — and  if  I  don't 
use  my  own  name — 

"  We  don't  want  money  so  badly  as  all  that.  I  am 
writing,  because  I  must  do  something  to  live  by,  and  I 
know  of  nothing  else  open  to  me  except  pen- work.  What- 
ever trash  I  turned  out,  I  should  be  justified ;  as  a  man, 
it's  my  duty  to  join  in  the  rough-and-tumble  for  more  or 
less  dirty  ha'pence.  You,  as  a  woman,  have  no  such  duty ; 
nay,  it's  your  positive  duty  to  keep  out  of  the  beastly 
scrimmage." 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  doing  something.  Why 
should  a  woman  be  shut  out  from  the  life  of  the  world  ? " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  your  part  in  the  life  of  the  world 
is  very  considerable.  You  have  given  the  world  a  new 
inhabitant,  and  you  are  shaping  him  into  a  man." 

Nancy  laughed,  and  reflected,  and  returned  to  her  dis- 
content. 

"  Oh,  every  woman  can  do  that." 

"Not  one  woman  in  a  thousand  can  bear  a  sound- 
bodied  child  ;  and  not  one  in  fifty  thousand  can  bring  up 
rightly  the  child  she  has  borne.  Leisure  you  must  have ; 
but  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  waste  it.  Read,  enjoy,  sit 
down  to  the  feast  prepared  for  you," 

"I  wanted  to  do  something,"  she  persisted,  refusing  to 
catch  his  eye.  "  I  have  read  enough." 

"  Read  enough  ?     Ha,  then  there's  110  more  to  be  said." 

His  portentous  solemnity  overcame  her.  Laughter 
lighted  her  face,  and  Tarrant,  laying  down  his  pipe, 
shouted  extravagant  mirth. 

"  Am  I  to  burn  it  then  ?  " 

"  You  are  not.  You  are  to  seal  it  with  seven  seals,  to 
write  upon  it  peche  de  jeunesse,  and  to  lay  it  away  at  the 
back  of  a  very  private  drawer.  And  when  you  are  old, 
you  shall  some  day  bring  it  out,  and  we'll  put  our  shaky 
heads  together  over  it,  and  drop  a  tear  from  our  dim  old 
eyes.— By-the-bye,  Nancy,  will  you  go  with  me  to  a  music- 
hall  to-morrow  night  ? " 

" A  music-hall?" 


392  IN   THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"Yes.  It  would  do  us  both  good,  I  think.  I  feel 
fagged,  and  you  want  a  change. — Here's  the  end  of  March ; 
please  Heaven,  another  month  shall  see  us  rambling  in 
the  lanes  somewhere  ;  meantime,  we'll  go  to  a  music-hall. 
Each  season  has  its  glory ;  if  we  can't  hear  the  lark,  let  us 
listen  to  the  bellow  of  a  lion-comique. — Do  you  appreciate 
this  invitation  ?  It  means  that  I  enjoy  your  company, 
which  is  more  than  one  man  in  ten  thousand  can  say  of 
his  wife.  The  ordinary  man,  when  he  wants  to  dissipate, 
asks — well,  not  his  wife.  And  I,  in  plain  sober  truth, 
would  rather  have  Nancy  with  me  than  any  one  else." 

"  You  say  that  to  comfort  me  after  my  vexation." 

"  I  say  it  because  I  think  it. — The  day  after  to-morrow 
I  want  you  to  come  over  in  the  morning  to  see  some  pic- 
tures in  Bond  Street.  And  the  next  day  we'll  go  to  the 
theatre." 

"  You  can't  afford  it." 

"  Mind  your  own  business.  I  remembered  this  morn- 
ing that  I  was  young,  and  that  I  shall  not  be  so  always. 
Doesn't  that  ever  come  upon  you  ? " 

The  manuscript,  fruit  of  such  persevering  toil,  was 
hidden  away,  and  its  author  spoke  of  it  no  more.  But  she 
suffered  a  grave  disappointment.  Once  or  twice  a  tempta- 
tion flashed  across  her  mind  ;  if  she  secretly  found  a  pub- 
lisher, and  if  her  novel  achieved  moderate  success  (she 
might  alter  the  title),  would  not  Tarrant  forgive  her  for 
acting  against  his  advice  ?  It  was  nothing  more  than  ad- 
vice ;  often  enough  he  had  told  her  that  he  claimed  no 
coercive  right ;  that  their  union,  if  it  were  to  endure,  must 
admit  a  genuine  independence  on  both  sides.  But  herein,  as 
on  so  many  other  points,  she  subdued  her  natural  impulse, 
and  conformed  to  her  husband's  idea  of  wifehood.  It 
made  her  smile  to  think  how  little  she  preserved  of  that 
same  "  genuine  independence ; "  but  the  smile  had  no  bit- 
terness. 

Meanwhile,  nothing  was  heard  of  Horace.  The  win- 
ter passed,  and  June  had  come  before  Nancy  again  saw 
her  brother's  handwriting.  It  was  on  an  ordinary  en- 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  393 

velope,  posted,  as  she  saw  by  the  office-stamp,  at  Brighton ; 
the  greater  her  surprise  to  read  a  few  lines  which  coldly 
informed  her  that  Horace's  wife  no  longer  lived.  "  She 
took  cold  one  evening  a  fortnight  ago,  and  died  after  three 
days'  illness." 

Nancy  tried  to  feel  glad,  but  she  had  little  hope  of  any 
benefit  to  her  brother  from  this  close  of  a  sordid  tragedy. 
She  answered  his  letter,  and  begged  that,  as  soon  as  he 
felt  able  to  do  so,  he  would  come  and  see  her.  A  month's 
silence  on  Horace's  part  had  led  her  to  conclude  that  he 
would  not  come,  when,  without  warning,  he  presented 
himself  at  her  door.  It  was  morning,  and  he  stayed  till 
nightfall,  but  talked  very  little.  Sitting  in  the  same 
place  hour  after  hour,  he  seemed  overcome  with  a  com- 
plete exhaustion,  which  made  speech  too  great  an  effort 
and  kept  his  thoughts  straying  idly.  Fanny's  name  did 
not  pass  his  lips  ;  when  Nancy  ventured  an  inquiry  con- 
cerning her,  he  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  spoke  of 
something  else. 

His  only  purpose  in  coming,  it  appeared,  was  to 
ask  for  information  about  the  Bahamas. 

"  I  can't  get  rid  of  my  cough,  arid  I'm  afraid  it  may 
turn  to  something  dangerous.  You  said,  I  remember, 
that  people  with  weak  chests  wintered  in  the  Baha- 
mas." 

"  Lionel  can  tell  you  all  about  it.  He'll  be  here  to- 
morrow. Come  and  have  a  talk  with  him. 

"No."  He  moved  pettishly.  "Tell  me  as  much  as 
you  know  yourself.  I  don't  feel  well  enough  to  meet 
people." 

Looking  at  him  with  profound  compassion,  Nancy 
thought  it  very  doubtful  whether  he  would  see  another 
winter.  But  she  told  him  all  she  could  remember  about 
Nassau,  and  encouraged  him  to  look  forward  with  pleas- 
ure and  hopefulness  to  a  voyage  thither. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  live  till  then  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  answered,  with  a  startled 
and  irritated  look.  "  I'm  not  so  bad  as  all  that." 


394  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

u  I  meant — how  are  you  going  to  arrange  your  life  ? " 
Nancy  hastened  to  explain. 

"  Oh,  I  have  comfortable  lodgings." 

"  But  you  oughtn't  to  be  quite  alone. — I  mean,  it  must 
be  so  cheerless." 

She  made  a  proposal  that  he  should  have  a  room  in 
this  little  house,  and  use  it  as  a  home  whenever  he  chose ; 
but  Horace  so  fretted  under  the  suggestion  that  it  had  to 
be  abandoned.  His  behaviour  was  that  of  an  old  man, 
enfeebled  in  mind  and  body.  Once  or  twice  his  manner 
of  speaking  painfully  reminded  Nancy  of  her  father 
during  the  last  days  of  his  life. 

With  a  peevish  sort  of  interest  he  watched  his  little 
nephew  toddling  about  the  room,  but  did  not  address  a 
word  to  the  child. 

A  cab  was  sent  for  to  convey  him  to  the  railway 
station.  Nancy  had  known  few  such  melancholy  days 
as  this. 

On  the  morning  when,  by  agreement,  she  was  to  go 
into  town  to  see  her  brother,  there  arrived  a  note  from 
him.  He  had  been  advised  to  try  a  health-resort  in 
Switzerland,  and  was  already  on  the  way.  Sorry  he  could 
not  let  Nancy  know  before  ;  would  visit  her  on  his  re- 
turn. Thus,  in  the  style  of  telegraphy,  as  though  he 
wrote  in  hot  haste. 

From  Switzerland  came  two  letters,  much  more  satis- 
factory in  tone  and  contents.  The  first,  written  in  July, 
announced  a  distinct  improvement  of  health.  No  details 
being  supplied,  Nancy  could  only  presume  that  her 
brother  was  living  alone  at  the  hotel  from  which  he  dated. 
The  second  communication,  a  month  later,  began  thus  : 
"  I  think  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  came  here  with  Mrs. 
Damerel.  She  will  stay  till  the  end  of  the  summer,  and 
then,  perhaps,  go  with  me  to  the  Bahamas,  if  that  seems 
necessary.  But  I  am  getting  wonderfully  well  and  strong. 
Mrs.  Damerel  is  kinder  to  me  than  any  one  in  the  world 
ever  was.  I  shall  tell  you  more  about  her  some  day." 
The  writer  went  on  to  describe  a  project  he  had  of  taking 


IN  THE   YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  395 

a  small  farm  in  Devonshire,  and  living  upon  it  as  a 
country  gentleman. 

Tarrant  warned  his  wife  not  to  build  hopes  upon  this 
surprising  report,  and  a  few  weeks  brought  news  that 
justified  him.  Horace  wrote  that  he  had  suffered  a  very 
bad  attack,  and  was  only  now  sufficiently  recovered  to 
hold  a  pen.  "  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do,  but  I  am  in 
good  hands.  No  one  was  ever  better  nursed,  night  and 
day. — More  before  long." 

Indeed,  it  was  not  long.  A  day  or  two  after  Nancy's 
return  from  a  seaside  holiday,  Mary  brought  in  a  tele- 
gram. It  came  from  Mrs.  Damerel.  "  Your  brother  died 
at  ten  o'clock  last  night,  suddenly,  and  without  pain.  I 
am  posting  a  letter  he  had  written  for  you." 

When  the  promised  letter  arrived,  it  was  found  to  bear 
a  date  two  months  ago.  An  unwonted  tenderness  marked 
the  opening  words. 

"  MY  DEAREST  SISTER,— What  I  am  going  to  write  is 
not  to  be  sent  to  you  at  once.  Sometimes  I  feel  afraid 
that  I  can't  live  very  long,  so  I  have  been  making  a  will, 
and  I  want  you  to  know  why  I  have  left  you  only  half  of 
what  I  have  to  leave.  The  other  half  will  go  to  some  one 
who  has  an  equal  claim  on  me,  though  you  don't  know  it. 
She  has  asked  me  to  tell  you.  If  I  get  thoroughly  well 
again,  there  will  be  need  of  this  letter,  and  I  shall  tell  you 
in  private  something  that  will  astonish  you  very  much. 
But  if  I  were  to  die,  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  learn  in  this 
way  that  Mrs.  Damerel  is  much  more  to  us  than  our 
mother's  sister ;  she  is  our  own  mother.  She  told  me  at 
the  time  when  I  was  behaving  like  an  idiot  at  Bourne- 
mouth. It  ought  to  have  been  enough  to  stop  me.  She 
confessed  that  she  had  done  wrong  when  you  and  I  were 
little  children  ;  that  was  how  she  came  to  marry  again 
whilst  father  was  still  alive.  Though  it  seemed  impos- 
sible, I  have  come  to  love  her  for  her  great  kindness  to 
me.  I  know  that  I  could  trust  you,  dearest  Nancy,  to 
let  her  share  whatever  you  have  ;  but  it  will  be  better  if  I 


396  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

provide  for  her  in  my  will.  She  has  been  living  on  a 
small  capital  and  now  has  little  left.  What  I  can  give 
her  is  little  enough,  but  it  will  save  her  from  the  worst 
extremities.  And  I  beg  you,  dear  sister,  to  forgive  her 
fault,  if  only  for  my  sake,  because  she  has  been  so  loving 
to  a  silly  and  useless  fellow. 

"  I  may  as  well  let  you  know  about  my  wife's  death. 
She  was  consumptive,  but  seemed  to  get  much  better  at 
Bournemouth  ;  then  she  wanted  to  go  to  Brighton.  We 
Jived  there  at  a  boarding-house,  and  she  behaved  badly, 
very  badly.  She  made  acquaintances  I  didn't  like,  and 
went  about  with  them  in  spite  of  my  objections.  Like  an 
obstinate  fool,  I  had  refused  to  believe  what  people  told 
me  about  her,  and  now  I  found  it  all  out  for  myself.  Of 
course  she  only  married  me  because  I  had  money.  One 
evening  she  made  up  her  mind  to  go  with  some  of  her 
friends  in  a  boat,  by  moonlight.  We  quarrelled  about  it, 
but  she  went  all  the  same.  The  result  was  that  she  got 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  died.  I  don't  pretend  to 
be  sorry  for  her,  and  I  am  thankful  to  have  been  released 
from  misery  so  much  sooner  than  I  deserved. 

"  And  now  let  me  tell  you  how  my  affairs  stand — 

At  the  first  reading,  Nancy  gave  but  slight  attention  to 
this  concluding  paragraph.  Even  the  thought  of  her 
brother's  death  was  put  aside  by  the  emotions  with  which 
she  learnt  that  her  mother  still  lived.  After  brooding 
over  the  intelligence  for  half  a  day,  she  resolved  to  ques- 
tion Mary,  who  perhaps,  during  so  long  a  residence  in 
Grove  Lane,  had  learnt  something  of  the  trouble  that 
darkened  her  master's  life.  The  conversation  led  to  a  dis- 
closure by  Mary  of  all  that  had  been  confided  to  her  by 
Mr.  Lord ;  the  time  had  come  for  a  fulfilment  of  her 
promise  to  the  dead  man. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OP  JUBILEE.  397 


VI 

HORACE'S  letter  Nancy  sent  by  post  to  her  husband, 
requesting  him  to  let  her  know  his  thoughts  about  it  in 
writing  before  they  again  met.  Of  her  own  feeling  she 
gave  no  sign.  "  I  want  you  to  speak  of  it  just  as  if  it  con- 
cerned a  stranger,  plainly  and  simply.  All  I  need  say  is, 
that  I  never  even  suspected  the  truth." 

Tarrant  did  not  keep  her  long  in  suspense,  and  his 
answer  complied  in  reasonable  measure  with  the  desire 
she  had  expressed. 

"  The  disclosure  has,  of  course,  pained  you.  Equally, 
of  course,  you  wish  it  were  not  necessary  to  let  me  know 
of  it ;  you  are  in  doubt  as  to  how  it  will  affect  me ;  you 
perhaps  fear  that  I  shall — never  mind  about  phrasing. 
First,  then,  a  word  on  that  point.  Be  assured  once  for  all 
that  nothing  external  to  yourself  can  ever  touch  the  feel- 
ing which  I  now  have  for  you.  '  One  word  is  too  often 
profaned ' ;  I  will  say  simply  that  I  hold  you  in  higher 
regard  than  any  other  human  being. 

"  Try  not  to  grieve,  my  dearest.  It  is  an  old  story,  in 
both  senses.  You  wish  to  know  how  I  view  the  matter. 
Well,  if  a  wife  cannot  love  her  husband,  it  is  better  she 
should  not  pretend  to  do  so ;  if  she  love  some  one  else, 
her  marriage  is  at  an  end,  and  she  must  go.  Simple 
enough — provided  there  be  no  children.  Whether  it  is 
ever  permissible  for  a  mother  to  desert  her  children,  I 
don't  know.  I  will  only  say  that,  in  you  yourself,  I  can 
find  nothing  more  admirable  than  the  perfect  love  which 
you  devote  to  your  child.  Forsake  it,  you  could  not. 

"  In  short,  act  as  feeling  dictates.  Your  mother  lives  ; 
that  fact  cannot  be  ignored.  In  your  attitude  towards 
her,  do  not  consult  me  at  all ;  whatever  your  heart  ap- 
proves, I  shall  find  good  and  right.  Only,  don't  imagine 
that  your  feeling  of  to-day  is  final — I  would  say,  make  no 
resolve  ;  they  are  worth  little,  in  any  concern  of  life. 

"  Write  to  me  again,  and  say  when  you  wish  to  see 
me." 

26 


398  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

After  reading-  this,  Nancy  moved  about  with  the  radi- 
ance of  a  great  joy  on  her  countenance.  She  made  no 
haste  to  reply  ;  she  let  a  day  elapse ;  then,  in  the  silence 
of  a  late  hour,  took  pen  and  paper. 

"  When  do  I  wish  to  see  you  ?  Always ;  in  every 
moment  of  my  day.  And  yet  I  have  so  far  conquered 
'  the  unreasonable  female ' — do  you  remember  saying 
that  ? — that  I  would  rather  never  see  you  again  than 
bring  you  to  my  side  except  when  it  was  your  pleasure  to 
be  with  me.  Come  as  soon  as  you  can — as  soon  as  you 
will. 

"  My  mother — how  shall  I  word  it  ?  She  is  nothing  to 
me.  I  don't  feel  that  Nature  bids  me  love  her.  I  could 
pardon  her  for  leaving  my  father  ;  like  you,  I  see  nothing 
terrible  in  that ;  but,  like  you,  I  knoiu  that  she  did  wrong 
in  abandoning  her  little  children,  and  her  kindness  to 
Horace  at  the  end  cannot  atone  for  it.  I  don't  think  she 
has  any  love  for  me.  We  shall  not  see  each  other  ;  at  all 
events,  that  is  how  I  feel  about  it  at  present.  But  I  am 
very  glad  that  Horace  made  provision  for  her — that  of 
course  was  right;  if  he  had  not  done  it,  it  would  have 
been  my  duty. 

"  I  had  better  tell  you  that  Mary  has  known  my 
mother's  story  for  a  long  time — but  not  that  she  still 
lived.  My  father  told  her  just  before  his  death,  and  ex- 
acted her  promise  that,  if  it  seemed  well,  she  would  repeat 
everything  to  me.  You  shall  know  more  about  it,  though 
it  is  bad  all  through.  My  dear  father  had  reason  bitterly 
to  regret  his  marriage  long  before  she  openly  broke  it. 

"  But  come  and  see  me,  and  tell  me  what  is  to  be  done 
now  that  we  are  free  to  look  round.  There  is  no  shame  in 
taking  what  poor  Horace  has  given  us.  You  see  that  there 
will  be  at  least  three  thousand  pounds  for  our  share,  apart 
from  the  income  we  shall  have  from  the  business." 

He  was  sure  to  come  on  the  evening  of  the  morrow. 
Nancy  went  out  before  breakfast  to  post  her  letter  ;  light- 
hearted  in  the  assurance  that  her  husband's  days  of  strug- 


IN  THE  YEAH  OP  JUBILEE.  399 

gle  were  over,  that  her  child's  future  no  longer  depended 
upon  the  bare  hope  that  its  father  would  live  and  thrive 
by  a  profession  so  precarious  as  that  of  literature,  she 
gave  little  thought  to  the  details  of  the  new  phase  of  life 
before  her.  Whatever  Tarrant  proposed  would  be  good 
in  her  sight.  Probably  he  would  wish  to  live  in  the 
country  ;  he  might  discover  the  picturesque  old  house  o£ 
which  he  had  so  often  spoken.  In  any  case,  they  would 
now  live  together.  He  had  submitted  her  to  a  probation, 
and  his  last  letter  declared  that  he  was  satisfied  with  the 
result. 

Midway  in  the  morning,  wrhilst  she  was  playing  with 
her  little  boy, — rain  kept  them  in  the  house, — a  knock  at 
the  front  door  announced  some  unfamiliar  visit.  Mary 
came  to  the  parlour,  with  a  face  of  surprise. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

u  Miss  Morgan." 

"  What  ?    Jessica  ?  " 

Mary  handed  an  envelope,  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Tar- 
rant."  It  contained  a  sheet  of  paper,  011  which  was 
written  in  pencil :  "I  beg  you  to  see  me,  if  only  for  a 
minute." 

"  Yes,  I  will  see  her,"  said  Nancy,  when  she  had 
frowned  in  brief  reflection. 

Mary  led  away  the  little  boy,  and,  a  moment  after,  in- 
troduced Jessica  Morgan.  At  the  appearance  of  her 
former  friend,  Nancy  with  difficulty  checked  an  exclama- 
tion ;  Miss  Morgan  wore  the  garb  of  the  Salvation  Army. 
Harmonious  therewith  were  the  features  shadowed  by  the 
hideous  bonnet :  a  face  hardly  to  be  recognised,  bloodless, 
all  but  fleshless,  the  eyes  set  in  a  stare  of  weak-minded 
fanaticism.  She  came  hurriedly  forward,  and  spoke  in  a 
quick  whisper. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  refuse  to  see  me." 

"  Why  have  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  was  impelled — I  had  a  duty  to  perform." 

Coldly,  Nancy  invited  her  to  sit  down,  but  the  visitor 
shook  her  head. 


400  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

"  I  mustn't  take  a  seat  in  your  house.  I  am  unwel- 
come ;  we  can't  pretend  to  be  on  terms  of  friendliness.  I 
have  come,  first  of  all," — her  eyes  wTandered  as  she  spoke, 
inspecting-  the  room, — "  to  humble  myself  before  you — to 
confess  that  I  was  a  dishonourable  friend, — to  make 
known  with  my  lips  that  I  betrayed  your  secret — 

Nancy  interrupted  the  low,  hurrying1,  panting  voice, 
which  distressed  her  ear  as  much  as  the  facial  expression 
that  accompanied  it  did  her  eyes. 

"  There's  no  need  to  tell  me.  I  knew  it  at  the  time,  and 
you  did  me  no  harm.  Indeed,  it  was  a  kindness." 

She  drew  away,  but  Jessica  moved  after  her. 

"  I  supposed  you  knew.  But  it  is  laid  upon  me  to  make 
a  confession  before  you.  I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,  most 
humbly  and  truly." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  some  one  has  told  you  to  do 
this  ? " 

"  Oh  no ! "  A  gleam  of  infinite  conceit  shot  over  the 
humility  of  Jessica's  countenance.  "I  am  answerable 
only  to  my  own  soul.  In  the  pursuit  of  an  ideal  which  I 
fear  you  cannot  understand,  I  subdue  my  pride,  and  con- 
fess how  basely  I  behaved  to  you.  Will  you  grant  me 
your  forgiveness ! " 

She  clasped  her  gloveless  hands  before  her  breast,  and 
the  fingers  writhed  together. 

"  If  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you,"  replied  Nancy,  over- 
come with  wonder  and  pity,  "  I  will  say  those  words.  But 
don't  think  that  I  take  upon  myself — 

"  Only  say  them.  I  ask  your  pardon — say  you  grant 
it." 

Nancy  uttered  the  formula,  and  with  bowed  head  Jes- 
sica stood  for  a  mintue  in  silence  ;  her  lips  moved. 

"  And  now,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  must  fulfil  the  sec- 
ond part  of  the  duty  which  has  brought  me  here."  Her 
attitude  changed  to  one  of  authority,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  Nancy's,  regarding  her  with  the  mild  but 
severe  rebuke  of  a  spiritual  superior.  "  Having  acknowl- 
edged my  wrong-doing,  I  must  remind  you  of  your  own. 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

Let  me  ask  you  first  of  all — have  you  any  religious 
life?" 

Nancy's  eyes  had  turned  away,  but  at  these  words  they 
flashed  sternly  upon  the  speaker. 

"  I  shall  let  you  ask  no  such  question." 

"I  expected  it,"  Jessica  sighed  patiently.  "You  are 
still  in  the  darkness,  out  of  which  I  have  been  saved." 

"  If  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  than  this,  I  must  re- 
fuse to  talk  any  longer." 

"  There  is  a  word  I  must  speak,"  pursued  Jessica.  "  If 
you  will  not  heed  it  now,  it  will  remain  in  your  memory, 
and  bear  fruit  at  the  appointed  time.  I  alone  know  of  the 
sin  which  poisons  your  soul,  and  the  expediences  through 
which  I  have  passed  justify  me  in  calling  you  to  repent- 
ance." 

Nancy  raised  her  hand. 

"  Stop  !  That  is  quite  enough.  Perhaps  you  are  behav- 
ing conscientiously ;  I  will  try  to  believe  it.  But  not  an- 
other word,  or  I  shall  speak  as  I  don't  wish  to." 

"  It  is  enough.  You  know  very  well  what  I  refer  to. 
Don't  imagine  that  because  you  are  now  a  married 
woman — 

Nancy  stepped  to  the  door,  and  threw  it  open. 

"Leave  the  house,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady  tone. 
"  You  said  you  were  unwelcome,  and  it  was  true.  Take 
yourself  out  of  my  sight !  " 

Jessica  put  her  head  back,  murmured  some  inaudible 
words,  and  with  a  smile  of  rancorous  compassion  went 
forth  into  the  rain. 

On  recovering  from  the  excitement  of  this  scene,  Nancy 
regretted  her  severity ;  the  poor  girl  in  the  hideous  bonnet 
had  fallen  very  low,  and  her  state  of  mind  called  for  for- 
bearance. The  treachery  for  which  Jessica  sought  pardon 
was  easy  to  forgive ;  not  so,  however,  the  impertinent  re- 
buke, which  struck  at  a  weak  place  in  Nancy's  conscience. 
Just  when  the  course  of  time  and  favour  of  circumstances 
seemed  to  have  completely  healed  that  old  wound,  Jessica, 
with  her  crazy  malice  grotesquely  disguised,  came  to  re- 


402  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

vive  the  half-forgotten  pangs,  the  shame  and  the  doubt 
that  had  seemed  to  be  things  gone  by.  It  would  have  be- 
come her,  Nancy  felt,  to  treat  her  hapless  friend  of  years 
ago  in  a  spirit  of  gentle  tolerance  ;  that  she  could  not  do 
so  proved  her — and  she  recognised  the  fact — still  imma- 
ture, still  a  backward  pupil  in  the  school  of  life. — "  And 
in  the  Jubilee  year  I  thought  myself  a  decidedly  accom- 
plished person ! " 

Never  mind.  Her  husband  would  come  this  evening. 
Of  him  she  could  learn,  without  humiliation. 

His  arrival  was  later  than  of  wont.  Only  at  eleven 
o'clock,  when  with  disappointment  she  had  laid  aside  her 
book  to  go  to  bed,  did  Tarrant's  rap  sound  on  the  window. 

u  I  had  given  you  up,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Yet  you  are  quite  good-tempered." 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  It  is  the  pleasant  custom  of  wives  to  make  a  husband 
uncomfortable  if  he  comes  late." 

"  Then  I  am  no  true  wife  ! "  laughed  Nancy. 

"Something  much  better,"  Tarrant  muttered,  as  he 
threw  off  his  overcoat. 

He  began  to  talk  of  ordinary  affairs,  and  nearly  half- 
an-hour  elapsed  before  any  mention  was  made  of  the 
event  that  had  bettered  their  prospects.  Nancy  looked 
over  a  piece  of  his  writing  in  an  evening  paper  which  he 
had  brought;  but  she  could  not  read  it  with  attention. 
The  paper  fell  to  her  lap,  and  she  sat  silent.  Clearly,  Tar- 
rant  would  not  be  the  first  to  speak  of  what  was  in  both 
their  minds.  The  clock  ticked  ;  the  rain  pattered  without ; 
the  journalist  smoked  his  pipe  and  looked  thoughtfully  at 
the  ceiling. 

"  Are  you  sorry,"  Nancy  asked,  u  that  I  am  no  longer 
penniless  ? " 

"Ah — to  be  sure.  We  must  speak  of  that.  No,  I'm  not 
sorry.  If  I  get  run  over,  you  and  the  boy — 

"  Can  make  ourselves  comfortable,  and  forget  you  ;  to 
be  sure.  But  for  the  present,  and  until  you  do  get  run 
over  ? " 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  4Q3 

"  You  wish  to  make  changes  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  ? " 

"  In  one  or  two  respects,  perhaps.  But  leave  me  out  of 
the  question.  You  have  an  income  of  your  own  to  dispose 
of ;  nothing  oppressively  splendid,  I  suppose.  What  do 
you  think  of  doing  ? " 

"  What  do  you  advise  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     Make  your  own  suggestion." 

Nancy  smiled,  hesitated,  and  said  at  length  : 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  take  a  house." 

"  In  London  ?  " 

"  That's  as  you  wish." 

"  Not  at  all.    As  you  wish.    Do  you  want  society  ? " 

"In  moderation.     And  first  of  all,  yours." 

Tarrant  met  her  eyes. 

"  Of  my  society,  you  have  quite  as  much  as  is  good  for 
you,"  he  answered  amiahly.  "  That  you  should  wish  for 
acquaintances,  is  reasonable  enough.  Take  a  house  some- 
where in  the  western  suburbs.  One  or  two  men  I  know 
have  decent  wives,  and  you  shall  meet  them." 

"  But  you  ?    You  won't  live  with  me  ? " 

"  You  know  my  view  of  that  matter." 

Nancy  kept  her  eyes  down,  and  reflected. 

"  Will  it  be  known  to  everybody  that  we  don't  live  to- 
gether ? " 

"Well,"  answered  Tarrant,  with  a  laugh,  "by  way  of 
example,  I  should  rather  like  it  to  be  known ;  but  as  I 
know  you  wouldn't  like  it,  let  the  appearances  be  as  or- 
dinary as  you  please." 

Again  Nancy  reflected.  She  had  a  struggle  with 
herself. 

"Just  one  question,"  she  said  at  length.  "Look 
me  in  the  face.  Are  you — ever  so  little — ashamed  of 
me  ? " 

He  regarded  her  steadily,  smiling. 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"  You  were — you  used  to  be  ?  " 

"  Before  I   knew  you ;    and  before   I    knew    myself. 


404  IN  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE. 

When,  in  fact,  you  were  a  notable  young  lady  of  Camber- 
well,  and  I " 

He  paused  to  puff  at  his  pipe. 

"And  you?" 

"  A  notable  young  fool  of  nowhere  at  all." 


THE  END. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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